


Illusions of Flight

by Marine_is_Hope



Series: Entertaining Ideas of the Extraordinary [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is an Emotionally Stunted Turtle, F/M, Gavroche is a BAMF, M/M, Marius is a puppy, Montparnasse is NOT a Happy Bunny, Multi, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marine_is_Hope/pseuds/Marine_is_Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marius was not expecting this when he signed up to be the internationally-known Les Amis's new publicist. In between past accidents, wedding preparations, deadlines, and being the drunk costume designer's new best friend, Marius really doesn't have any time to sleep, much less fall in love. Yet by the end of everything, he might just find a new family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting the Troop

**Author's Note:**

> This is also named "Why Marine Can't Watch Cirque du Soleil". I kept telling myself that I wouldn't make a multi-chapter fic... now look what happened. Also, I haven't managed to get a beta for this, so sorry for grammar mistakes. Oh well... Tell me what you think!

It was hot and stuffy. Marius tried not to think about it as he clutched his nearly-falling-apart duffel bag to his chest and tried to breathe in deeply. He looked down at his worn-down, hole-ridden shoes. Once again he wondered just what he was doing here; once again he had to remind himself that he had been given an actual job. His first job as a recently graduated publicist. Never mind that it was at a circus. Never mind that his grandfather had all-but disinherited him the moment he told him of his post-graduate plans. 

The old man had his heart firmly set on Marius going into law, like his father and mother. Needless to say he had not taken kindly to the idea of his grandson working for 'a rotten butch of homeless carnies'. Marius had tried to tell his guardian that Les Amis was an official off-shoot of Cirque du Soleil, and that many of its performers were internationally known. He then found himself kicked out on the street with only a bag full of his clothes and small trinkets of his parents. 

So, here he was in his new home, finding himself alone in a warehouse-turned-workplace that smelled suspiciously like plums, body-odor, and wet paint. He looked around cautiously. His office was an offshoot from the main open area, where a small group of acrobats trained and a pair of girls helped each other stretch. They were both very pretty, as different as night and day, but just as pretty as the other. A nightingale and a lark.

Marius jumped into the air when a hand clamped itself onto his shoulder. He found his new employer, Mr. Valjean, smiling down at him warmly. The old man had been a star in his youth, one of the best acrobats on the East-Coast. He still had the muscle to attest to his strength. Marius made a mental note to never get him angry. "H-hello, Sir." Marius stammered, clutching his bag to his chest. 

"Good morning, Marius. I trust that you were able to find us with ease?" 

"Of course, Sir. Might I say again that I am very thankful that you gave me such a wonderful opportunity?" Marius didn't say the he had gotten lost four times on his way there. He blamed it on his slight inclination to day-dream.

"Nonsense, nonsense, I have seen some of your previous volunteer work, so I can say for certain that the opportunity will be rewarding for all of us. Now, come, let me show you around." With that, the man took the boy by the arm and dragged him away. 

They walked out into the main area, where the two girls were still stretching. "Eponine, Cosette!" Both girls turned to smile at the elderly man as he walked up. Eponine's smile was full, while Cosette's was shy. They both trotted up. "This here is Marius," Valjean explained, "He's our new publicist. Marius, these lovely ladies are Eponine and Cosette. They are contortionists.” The girls took an arm each, and proceeded to drag Marius away. Marius looked around confused. They didn't stop until they were out of sight. 

"Sorry 'bout that." Eponine muttered, her voice was soft with a thick accent Marius couldn't place. 

"It's just that Papa did something to make Javert mad again." 

"Probably forgot ta turn in th' taxes four weeks early like he's supposed ta."

"And we really don't want to be around when Javert-"

"Jean Valjean!" As if on que, a man who Marius realized as the Head of Security rushed into the building.

"Finds him. Run, Papa, run!" Cosette called, and Valjean did just that. Javert followed in hot pursuit. Both of the girls giggled, while Marius looked worried.

"Will he be alright?" 

"Hm? Oh, of course, after a good discipline lesson, Javert will let him off the hook. Probably. Now, come on, let’s go get R and give you the merry tour." 

"R?" 

"Our resident artist." The trio walk into another room, which, by the number of loose sheets of paper and random paint splatters, had been converted into an art studio. "R!" 

A mess of jet black curls popped into view at Eponine's call. They tilted back to reveal sharp blue eyes and a scruffily handsome face. A wide smile came to view. "My, what have we here? The lovely duo themselves and... what is this? A newcomer? Oh joyous day!" R swiveled around in his seat and pushed his way over. He was covered in paint, had a bottle of beer in his hand, and seemed perfectly content. Or drunk. Maybe just very drunk. He stuck out a hand for Marius to shake but did not get up. "Grantaire," he said, "resident artist and cynic. Come to me if you ever wanna have a good time." 

"Oh, please, R stop flirting. We're trying to show Marius around, not scare him off." Cosette smiled as she ruffled the painter's hair. Marius took the time to look around. Costumes and set pieces were thrown around the room, all marvelously detailed and painfully intricate. 

"Grantaire does all of our costumes and props." Eponine whispered as Marius looked at a detailed sketch of a blond man in flight. He looked like an angel.

"Must take a lot of time." He muttered, to which Eponine nodded. 

"He sometimes can't sleep 'cause of his injury. So he just works." 

"Injury?" It was then that Marius noticed that the chair Grantaire was sitting in was not a swivel chair or anything of the sort. It was a wheel-chair. "Oh..." Was all that Marius could manage. He did not ask what happened, even if it bit at his mind and tongue. 

Eponine gave a small smile, a sad little thing that carried too much experience and pain, "He used to be a performer here. He was really good." 

R wheeled around to face them, "Ponine, are you talking about me behind my back again? Way did I tell you? What happens in Daytona--"

"Stays in Daytona, 'es, R, I know. Now let’s go." She rushed forward and pushed Grantaire out of the room. Cosette laughed, grabbed Marius's hand, and took off after them.  
By the time they entered another room, they were all laughing. Marius found himself feeling completely at ease with people that he barely knew. It was a strange and exhilarating feeling. He wanted it to last forever. He only just managed to take his eyes off of Cosette’s smile when Grantaire started talking. “Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, get your butts over here to say hello!” He yelled, and two young men and one woman tumbled forward. “This strapping young lad is Marius,” Grantiare waved an airy hand to where Marius stood; “he wants to join your wonderful love fest.” 

“Grantaire, please!” Cosette bopped him on the head as Marius blushed. 

Grantaire was not deterred in the slightest, “Marius, this is the handsome Jollly, or Joly, he also serves as one of our resident doctors. If he says you have cholera, it means he likes you.” The slighter man waved in greeting and did a front flip. “The man behind him is his graceful boyfriend, Bossuet. Don’t ever get in front of him on the stairs: he will fall on you and it will be painful.” The taller, bald man smiled sheepishly. “And this,” Grantaire pointed to the dark-skinned beauty of the group, “Is their lovely bride-to-be, Musichetta. Speaking of which, ‘Chetta, I need to get your measurements for the gown. One can never be too early with these things.” The young woman swooped down to plant a kiss on Grantaire’s brow, to which he grinned. “Careful now, don’t want your lovelies getting jealous because of little old me!” Joly and Bossuet rolled their eyes. 

“Trust me, Grantaire, if ‘Chetta was going to cheat on us with anybody, it’d probably be with Enjolras, sorry.” Bossuet said. His voice was a deep baritone that had laughter hidden within its depths.

“Oh please, we all know that would never work out. I would go to Starbucks one day and he would dump me onto the street.” Musichetta laughed, her voice rivaling the pealing of bells. She planted a kiss on both of her boy’s cheeks and waved good bye. She took off running, did a cartwheel and went into three rolls. She landed perfectly. Joly smiled after her fondly, and went after her, Bossuet followed. 

Grantaire led Marius past a fire-dancer named Feuilly, who loved fire almost as much as he loved Poland and his friend Barohel. Grantaire had purposefully made his costume red and white, which Marius thought was kind of him. 

Cosette introduced him to the animal trainer, whose name was Bahorel. The man had a grin that matched that of a wolf’s, but it was clear that he was kind-hearted. Eponine whispered secrets into Marius’s ear. Apparently, Bahorel often tailed R to the bars to make sure the painter did not get into too much trouble. He and Feuilly were apparently in love with each other but were too pig-headed to notice.

After Bahorel, they moved into a make-shift school room. A group of children, all boys, soon surrounded them. They all looked like Eponine in a way. A young bespectacled man, walked forward. The moment that he laid eyes on Eponine, his demeanor brightened. The girl didn’t notice the change, and she introduced him to the party, “This is Combeferre. He is in charge of my brothers’ education, and is also our head doctor along with Joly, so all the more power to him.” 

Combeferre chuckled, nodding to Marius as one of the smaller boys grabbed at his pant-leg and whispered something into his ear. “Thing 2 wants to tell you that one day he wants to be like R and paint pretty pictures.” The boy frowned and tugged incessantly at Combeferre’s cargo pants. “I’m sorry, awesome pictures. Please excuse the mistranslation.” The boy smiled up at R, who’s gaze had saddened somewhat. R still managed to smile. 

“Thing 2?” Marius asked.

“Yes , Thing 1 and Thing 2 are our youngest performers. Eponine’s parents—”

“Never thought to name ‘em because ‘ey were dicks.” Eponine growled, but then brightened when she saw the boys’ smiles dim. “So we just named you after your favorite characters ever, right?” Both boys nodded enthusiastically, and began handing off of Combeferre’s arms. 

A slightly older boy came darting into the room, being chanced by a curly haired man. The curly haired man was followed by a wisp of a boy with delicate features and flowers braided into his hair. They both greeted Marius with enthusiasm. “This is Jean, nee Jehan. He’s our wonderful tightrope walker. Courfeyrac is his boyfriend and partner, though in my opinion, he would be better suited being a clown.” Cosette teased, to which Courfeyrac stuck his tongue out. 

“You’re just jealous of my awesome skills.”

“Courfeyrac, if you think making children laugh is a skill-set, I might have to get Joly to check you out again for a fever. Even I can do that.” Grantaire’s voice was light, but there was a hidden darkness behind it that made the entire room go still. The nature-creature that Marius now knew to be Jehan rested a hand on R’s shoulder. His eyes held a quiet worry. 

“R, are you—”

“Taire, Taire!” The boy who had run in cut in front of Jehan, a smirk on his face. “I got halfway up to the ceiling this time! Soon I’ll be able to even beat Enjolras! Just you watch!” 

Grantaire laughed and the tension of the past moment was forgotten. “Really now,” he said, “well, it is high time someone decided to put Apollo back in his place. Is he still training?” 

“I think so. He was hiding from me in the rafters when I left him.” 

“Ah, thanks Gav!” Grantaire dragged Eponine out, who latched on to Marius, who grabbed onto Cosette, who just laughed. 

They all-but-fell into a room of ribbons. The strips of fabric caught the sun’s lights and gave the room an almost unearthly quality. Music was playing softly in the background. There was an open window, making the silken strands sway in the breeze. Marius’s breath caught in this throat.  
Grantaire was not as enchanted. He rolled forward, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling. He took a deep breath and called up, “Apollo, Apollo let down your long hair!” 

Peanut shells began to pelt him, making him laugh and cover his head. He did not back up, however. Instead, he continued to smile up, as if trying to find the sun. 

Cosette stepped forward, “Enjolras, can you please come down? We have a new family member.” Marius felt a blush creep onto his cheeks. She called him family. He would like this family. 

The ribbons rustled, and suddenly, a man came falling down from the heavens, wrapped in red silk. It looked like he was in free fall, as he twisted and turned. Then Marius realized that no, he was not falling, he was flying. He could stop any moment he chose to. Marius noticed how Grantaire’s breath hitched at the man’s descent and how the painter’s face had gone pale. 

Three feet below the ground, the blond angel stopped, his precarious stop aided only by one foot wrapped in red. He cocked his head to look at Marius, then bowed it slightly, “Hello.” He said. 

Marius was too close to speechless to do anything besides wave. Enjolras quickly lost interest and proceeded to scurry back up to his perch. Grantaire stopped him about halfway up. “You’re holding on a bit too tightly. You could damage your hands. Do I need to get you low stretch fabrics?” 

Enjolras looked at him confused, “What would an artist like you know of Arial Silk?” He asked, his voice almost interested. He looked willing to partake in a conversation. It was clear he wanted to know Grantaire’s opinion, but didn’t know how to use his words.

Grantaire choked out a laugh and turned away, “Absolutely nothing, dear marble Apollo.” Enjolras flinched at the name, glared, and flew back up to the rafters where Grantaire and his words could not reach him. 

“Nothing at all.” Grantaire spat to himself as he wheeled himself out of the room.


	2. Marius Does Actually Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that I don't know how Enjolras would act without a cause to stand for. He seems to have an obsessive personality to me. My head-canon, wants me to make him come from a rich family who had him home-schooled through grade school. Hence the social-awkwardness but perfect speaking skills. Yep. He's adorable. As is Marius, who has managed to worm his way into my heart by being dorky and cute. I don't know how it happened.

Over the next few days, Marius learned many things. He learned that you can easily tune a person out if you had work to do. They would not care. He found out that you could not leave Bahorel and Grantaire in the same room, for they would get blindingly drunk. He had the revelation that Jehan and Courfeyrac were incredibly loud in bed, and thus were horrible roommates. He moved out after the third night, into his own apartment style room, complete with a cardboard cut out of Napoleon (He had to promise to never let Enjolras in his room, as the blonde would most likely try to set the thing on fire, or behead it with scissors).

He discovered that he was irrevocably in love with Cosette, who he was sure, was made by the angels above who forgot to give her bones. He had tried to do yoga with her and Eponine, but after fifteen minutes of humiliation, he ran away to Grantaire's studio to wallow in his shame. Lastly, he inferred that Grantaire would immediately stop talking the moment anyone even referred to his injury. 

It became clear to Marius that Grantaire had not had the injury very long, and that it was confined to only one leg. He also learned that no one, let him repeat, no one would openly discuss what happened. So, of course, it left a burning hole of curiosity in Marius’s brain. 

In order to forget about the itch, Marius would work tirelessly on advertising and the like, directing his underlings (and oh were they sweet little minions, he adored them all and tried to learn their names... it didn't work) to and fro. He created almost ten publicity videos of the casts’ acts in half as many days and created a homepage, YouTube account, twitter account (Which Courfeyrac and Fueilly would hack into every now and then with the help of Gavroche, who was of course, a genius.), and a Facebook. The advertising was clearly showing, as their next three shows were booked. Valjean thought Marius to be a godsend. Everyone adored him and made fun of his pining to boot. Even Enjolras smiled at him when he decided to crawl out of his Bat Cave, which was a sure sign that something was going right. 

He often spent restless nights poring over old archives and the web for old videos of the group, trying to find new material of public favorites. The second day after he had created the Facebook, he found out that Enjolras had a fan-page on tumblr. He sometimes snuck them pictures when the blond was too in tuned to his political books. Marius learned that before Enjolras wanted to be an acrobat, he had wanted to be a politician, or anarchist, or socialist (Marius wasn't really sure, he just knew it wasn't moderate). He was a very active political activist, and was often involved in the workings of as many as six rallies at a given time. He had managed to get most of Les Amis involved the key word there was most (Javert refused to part-take in any event that might go against the law, which included disturbance of the peace. Grantaire only went for Enjolras. Valjean only went to make sure his daughter was happy and safe.). Marius was sure that the government officials were thanking their lucky stars, because trust him, Enjorlas could take any argument and tear it to shreds. Now, Combeferre could do this too, but he had a sort of dignity. Combeferre was the type of guy who sat you down, showed you the fallacies of your argument in his 'teacher voice', told you his argument and why it was better, and then sent you on your merry brainwashed way to spread his gospel. Enjolras did not. He just took an opposing view point and squeezed the life out of it with a few choice words, and threw it's carcass back at you. He could do this to everyone except Grantaire. 

If Enjolras was the sun, Grantaire was a cloud. He had a comeback for all of Enjolras’s points. He could send the man floundering with a pointed smirk and a sharp jest. It was almost disconcerting. They were truly opposites. But that did not stop Grantaire from loving (and hating) Enjolras with every inch of his being. It was almost like worship. Of course, Enjolras did not understand. It was as Eponine had whispered when they had first left Enjolras after Grantaire had fled: Enjolras had the emotional capacity of a turtle. It was either head out, facing the world, or head in, noticing nothing at all. Poor Grantaire.

Marius had many of these revelations late at night while he was still working. Often times he would be the last person to go to sleep. Thursday was no different. He was in the archives, trying to sort out the monster of a mess. He had been compiling a bunch of old photographs and pictures when he stumbled upon it. It was an old video camera with film still in it. It was one of those old VHS cameras. So, of course, Marius took out Mr. Valjean's VHS (Javert had hidden it away years ago in order to not have to watch the torture that was Disney Princesses dancing around the screen every day when Cosette was six), placed in into the player and leaned back to see if he could convert any of the material onto a disk.

The recording was blurry at best; smoke would often obstruct the view whenever the taker exhaled smoke from his cigarette. There was laughter in the background. Eponine was off to the side, smiling slightly. She looked about three years younger and though her eyes seemed far older. She cringed when ever the taker looked her way. Both the recorder and Eponine were now focused on the center stage. It seemed to be in the middle of a showing. The lights flashed off, and when they came back on, green ribbons fluttered down from the ceiling and slow music began to play. A man came into view, a smile highlighting the blue of his eyes. He bowed to the audience and began to scale the silks. About half way up, or close to 40 feet off the ground, the man took hold of another rope and wrapped it carefully around his wrist. Then he took off. If anyone could fly, it was this man, Marius decided as the man circled over the audience’s heads. He was igniting rounds of cheering and applause.

If anything, the boy’s smile brightened at the praise. He leaped to another silk, this time, even higher up than before. He began to wrap another ribbon around his waist. A hush fell over the crowd. The boy looked out from his perch, smiled, and then began to drop. 

But there was a problem. An audible metal snap was all it took. The boy cried out in shock. Then the young man was free falling like Icarus after he went to close to the sun. He tried to grab onto another strand, but he was moving too fast. He couldn't stop. Nothing saved him and so he fell to the stage, ribbon trailing behind him like wings. Screams of panic erupted in the crowd when he collided with the ground. Green silk was quickly reddened as it landed on top of the body.

All was silent. Marius heard Eponine cry out, “OH MY GOD, GRANTAIRE!!” The camera shut off. Marius found himself trembling. There was no way that he was going to get any sleep that night. 

So, when Cosette came to check on him in the morning, she found him staring blankly at a computer screen, pale and shaken. She immediately set down her coffee to crouch down beside him. “Marius,” She whispered softly, “Is everything alright?” 

Marius shook himself to attention and managed to smile down at her. “Hm? Oh, yes, Cosette, I am fine. I just… had a very long night.” Taking in the dark circles around his eyes, the girl believed that. 

“You are working yourself too hard: the next performance isn’t for another three weeks. There’s no reason why you should be pulling all-nighters yet.” 

“A-Ah, but the second week is the busiest for a publicist. We can’t do anything a week away from the show.” 

Cosette wasn’t buying it. She gave him her coffee, kissed him on the cheek, and dragged him to her father to insist that Valjean give him a paid day off. Marius sputtered out arguments, but Valjean would have none of it. “One day off has never hurt anyone, and besides, with you around, our ticket sales have increased ten-fold! It makes me wonder what that vagabond Montparnasse was doing when he was in your shoes.” Valjean clapped Marius on the back, and Cosette kissed him on the cheek again before running off to train with Eponine. Marius was a sputtering mess when he walked back out of the office.

Now, normally, Marius would go and hang out with Grantaire during his free time. But due to what he saw last night, he figured that wouldn’t be a good idea. He would probably say something bad and get himself into a whole world of trouble. So he looked for other quiet places. Which is how he found himself back in the Ribbon Room. He did not call up to Enjolras, who he was sure was practicing really high up, like always. Instead, he just took off his shoes and curled up on one of the mats. He didn’t know when he fell asleep. He just noticed that when he woke up he had a red jacket covering his shoulders and a water bottle by his head. 

By the next day, he figured that he could speak to Grantaire without saying something foolish. So, during his hour long lunch break, he traipsed into the other man’s studio. “R?” He called, and was responded with a colorful array of curses and the clatter of pins onto the ground. He walked into the backroom and there was Grantaire, glaring at him as if he had started the apocalypse, and to Marius’s surprise, Musichetta. Musichetta was garbed all in white and looked almost too beautiful. She was positively glowing with happiness. Marius then remembered that her ‘wedding day’ was fast approaching. Though she could only legally marry one of her boys, they were hosting a celebration for all three of them. He quickly began to pick up all the pins that Grantaire dropped, which the artist then put back in his mouth Marius knew that if Joly knew Grantaire had done that, Grantaire would be put in solitary isolation for a week. 

After about an hour, Grantaire decided that he had enough measurements to go by and told Musichetta that she could go. She did so gladly, stretching her neck and waving goodbye. Grantaire immediately went to work sewing together the basic outline of the dress. Marius watched on in slight amazement. What Grantaire had lost when he lost his legs, he regained when he created art. His masterpieces were rife with movement; they were free where R was restricted. Marius released a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. R looked up at him. 

“What the matter, Don Juan?” R ribbed, a small smirk playing at his lips. Marius noticed that while R smirked a great deal, he rarely smiled. 

“’M just tired.” 

“Cosette told me that you didn’t go to sleep last night. What’s the matter?” R repeated his previous question.

Marius bit his lip. He decided to go for it. “I saw a video that bothered me.” 

“Oh? Well now, who was in it?” 

“Eponine… you.” 

Grantaire went still. “W-”

“It was of when you fell.” For a minute it seemed as if Grantaire hadn’t heard Marius. He just continued to string pearls onto a string, which he then attached to the waist of Musichetta’s gown. 

“So?” He finally whispered, as if waiting for Marius to ridicule him. 

“Why did you let Enjolras say that you didn’t know anything about the ropes?” 

Grantaire squinted at him. “Of all the things to ask me, you say that?”

“What were you expecting me to ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe why I was performing when I couldn’t even keep myself from falling? Why I would stay and show my face around here?” There was such bitterness in Grantaire’s voice, so much self-hatred. His hands shook. 

“Have people asked you that before?” 

“More than once.” R’s grip on the freshwater pearls tightened, and he brought a bottle of wine to his lips. 

“You were incredible.” The strand of beads snapped and white circles scattered all around the office. Grantaire buried his face in his hands. 

“People aren’t meant to fly.” 

“What about Enjolras?” 

“Apollo is a god among men. He has no need to be bound to the earth when he can watch the on-goings of the world from his perch in the heavens.” 

“You were also fit for those heavens.” Grantaire scoffed at Marius’s words. He managed to hoist himself out of the chair and slid to the ground to begin picking up the pearls. Marius looked on desperately. The crack of the metal clasp echoed in his head. He thought of something. “R,” He said, his voice hesitant, “Why did you fall?” 

Blue eyes glared up at him with the anger of threatening thunderstorms. “What?” 

“Umm, that’s not what I meant—what I meant to ask was how did you fall? What caused it?”

“My grip slipped.” 

Marius frowned, “B-But what about the clamp?” 

R looked at him in confusion, “What are you talking about?” 

“The carabineer. The one that snapped and started your fall.”

“Marius, all of the carabineers were secure before I went on. I had some one… check.” By the last word, Grantaire had gone pale. He shook his head vigorously. 

“What? R, what’s wrong?” 

“I-It’s nothing important, just that… I need to talk to Eponine.” Grantaire shuffled back into his wheelchair and rushed out. Marius finished collecting the pearls and began restringing them. It was all getting far too confusing.


	3. Late Night Shenanigans and Combeferre's Sassiness

Grantaire wheeled into the kitchen area and all-but shoved past Courfeyrac. “Eponine! Cosette, where’s ‘Ponine?” The blonde woman pointed to the table, where, sure enough, Eponine was sitting with Thing 2 in her lap, talking to Combeferre. Cosette took in Grantaire’s panicked expression with worry. 

“Grantaire are you alr-”

“Not now, Lark, please. Eponine!” The contortionist looked up, confused. She got up, settled Thing 2 into Combeferre’s lap, and walked over. 

“R, what’s up?” 

“Where was Monty when had my accident?” 

“Beside me, filming, I think.”

“And before?” 

“Umm, Jesus, R, I don’t know! What’s this all about? What’s got you so worked up?” R was about to comment when Enjolras walked in. All the fight seemed to leave him when the blonde man came into view. 

“Nothing. N-Nothing at all.” He whispered. He fled the moment Enjolras started towards him. Eponine thought it was odd, but not exactly abnormal. Every time E and R had a ‘debate’, (which was really no more than an all-out tongue-lashing on Enjolras’s part and harshly sarcastic jabs on R’s) Grantaire would hide away from his golden Apollo for a good three days to lick his wounds. Grantaire had not noticed the hurt that clouded Enjolras’s face when he left, but Eponine surely did.

A plan began to hatch itself in her mind. After all, it had been getting a little boring in the relationship department ever since Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta got engaged. It was high time to spice things up again. “Combeferre!” The philosopher looked up and Eponine bounded over to him, a large smile gracing her lips. He grinned back and Eponine felt flutters overtake her stomach. She was sure that she was blushing. She had thought that she might have a crush on Marius, but this was way different. She cleared her throat, “You want for Enjy to be happy, right?” 

Ferre arched an eyebrow, but nodded. It was common knowledge that Combeferre was Enjolras’s best friend and moral compass. “Of course,” He said, “But, pray tell me, what are you planning.” 

“I think it’s high time for me and Cosette to play matchmaker ‘gain. We’re goin’ ta need Marius’s and your help, however.” 

“Oh? Just who are you going to be setting up my best friend with?” 

“R, of course.” 

“Oh dear god, you must want for the world to explode. R is an absolute slob! You've seen how his studio is! Enjolras is almost as neat and tidy as Joly is!”

"It wouldn't be that bad!"

"He organizes the nuts from the Planters Jungle variety. For no reason. He would wake me up at one in the morning to tell me that R put them back into the original container. I would know. R's done that before." 

"Okay, so 'ey would need some time ta get used to each other." 

"A little time?" 

“Aww, come on, think of how cute they’ll be! Ferre, it’s for the good of the circus: the sexual tension is stifling our creative genius!” Eponine shot Combeferre a set of award-winning puppy-dog eyes. The doctor sighed and shrugged: he would give Eponine anything she wanted if she tried hard enough.

“Alright, alright. But you have to be the one to get Marius to agree.” 

“That’s what Cosette is for! I’ll have her send a smile his way and he’ll be down on his knees!”

"Oh, please, not another marriage. This one's already causing too much drama!" 

"But you love them and want them to be happy right?"

"You're a co-dependent sap." 

"So are you, now come on!" And thus, Operation ER started. 

 

It was late at night when Marius finally got off the phone with an advertising company. He yawned and shut his MacBook down. The entire building was silent. 

Though, as Marius left his office room, he heard a soft shuffling sound. Looking around, Marius walked towards the sound. Suddenly, there was light and Marius had to blink a few times in order to adjust to the change. He now found himself looking at a slightly-sheepish Grantaire.

The artist just watched him with blue eyes. He seemed to be in an internal debate with himself. He steeled himself and soon Marius found a camera pushed into his hands. 

"This was your stupid idea." Was all that R said before he continued wheeling down the hallway into the Ribbon Room. Marius followed after him like a lost puppy. 

R walked up to the ropes with hesitance in his steps. Marius said nothing, even when R raised himself to his feet with a pained grimace. He just watched on as Grantaire carefully wrapped the silks around his forearms and pushed off the ground with his good foot. Grantaire was soon giving him an upside down smile. A true smile. Marius raised the video camera with unknowingly shaky hands. 

Grantaire gave a small laugh as he righted himself, and then held himself aloft by his arms. He began swinging. R pushed up into a handstand and wrapped the ropes around his right foot. Marius tried to warn him. He did. But he only managed to whimper out a, “Taire, wait—” He could only watch as Grantaire bit back a gasp of pain, lost his foot hold and went tumbling to the padded ground. He just laid there for a minute. Marius ran over and helped him to sit up. “Grantaire? Grantaire, are you alright? Does your leg—”

“Damn my fucking leg!” R snarled the words and Marius shrank back. “Sorry,” There was a genuine apologetic air to Grantaire’s words. “It’s just... I can forget about it for so much time, then I make just one wrong move and…” He trailed off and bitterly wiped at his eyes. “I just hate it so, so much. I feel so damn useless here.” 

“But you aren’t useless! Have you seen the costumes you create?” 

“Yeah, yeah, the best thing since sliced bread. Marius, that’s not what I mean.”

“Oh?” 

“Working here, with all of these people, it just… I hate being forced to watch. I don’t want to just watch. I want to get up and run with Joly and Bossuet. I used to. I used to love it. I used to love being here. Now I can’t do anything and I feel so bloody useless. I want to be able to show Enjolras what I mean when he holds the ropes too damn tight. Because he does. You probably wouldn’t notice it. You probably don’t understand a word of what I’m saying but… but…” Grantaire had started crying. 

Marius sank down to his knees and took the man into his arms, the way that he was sure that his father had done with him when he was young. Grantaire sobbed and clung to the smaller man. “I just don’t want to have to look up at him. I can’t just keep looking up at him.” Marius wasn’t sure how he managed to get Grantaire back into his studio. But he did. He sat with the artist until Grantaire had fallen asleep with broken strands of French on his lips. As Marius shut the door, a broken whimper escaped the prone man’s lips, “Enjolras.” The reverent, hopeless, despairing whisper of the name cut through the air like a knife. Marius found that he had enough.

Marius didn’t come out from his office for the next three days. Eponine and Cosette hovered around his door anxiously. Grantaire took food in and made sure to leave with only empty plates. There had been no more late night escapades. Everyone began to grow anxious, for everyone had begun to care for the puppy of a man. Even Enjolras began to hang around Marius’s corridors on his breaks. 

So when Grantaire got a text asking in to come over on the evening of the fourth day, he rushed to the room. Marius was thin, with circles under his eyes. But he smiled when the artist entered. He rolled over to a small table. Grantaire joined him. Marius pushed a small stack of papers over to the other man. “It’s another routine for you. It’s specialized so that you won’t use your legs in general. Sorry it took so long.” 

Grantaire just looked at him with wide eyes. He placed down the packet with shaking hands. “Y-You,” He licked his lips and started over, “You spent three whole days, worrying us all sick, making a routine for me?”

“Yes. I was hoping that you would try it out tonight. I would really like to film it.” 

“YOU BLOODY IDIOT!” Everyone in the warehouse heard the scream. “YOU ARE WORSE THAN ENJOLRAS! YOU. YOU, YOU CAN’T DO THAT! YOU COULD HAVE ASKED EPONINE! YOU COULD HAVE ASKED COSETTE, who, by the way is nearly ill with concern. If you don’t ask her out in the next three hours, I will fucking castrate you, you socially-awkward, annoyingly brilliant, awesomely inept excuse for a best friend.” Grantaire finished his rant with a bone-crushing hug, made awkward by his wheel-chair. Marius cleared his throat. 

“Don’t you ever think about using a cane?” 

“Nah, too uppity. I like my chair.” 

A few minutes later, after Grantaire had left, Cosette came in. Her blonde hair was slightly askew, her eyes were dark, her clothes were dirty and she looked absolutely beautiful. Marius looked up, smiled, and began to form a proper greeting in his mind, when she grabbed him by the t-shirt and pulled him up to meet her half-way. 

Now, Marius had been dreaming of their first kiss since about four minutes after he met Cosette. He had been imagining a soft brush of innocent lips before hesitantly pulling back to look into her beautiful eyes. That is not what he got. Instead, he got teeth and tongue and fingers digging in his hair, and by god, he couldn’t breathe. But he wasn’t going to stop. He was pretty sure that he was never going to let them stop, oxygen be damned. 

Unfortunately, biology had never been Marius’s friend, and so, eventually, they did have to pull back for air. Marius then found that somehow during their three minute long make-out session, he had all-but pinned Cosette to his desk, with his hand halfway up her skirt and god; he hoped her father didn’t walk in. 

Cosette dragged him down for another kiss, and soon, her father was the least of his worries. 

Grantaire was laughing at him. Marius pouted; cradling the video camera. Grantaire swung himself around using only his left arm. Marius really wanted to know how the hell Grantaire stayed so fit when all he did was paint, drink, and eat three bags of Cheetos a day. It made Marius think that life wasn’t fair. “So let me get this straight,” Grantaire’s smile was bright and airy as he moved back and forth, “You two were going all sorts of out, like the lovely pair of horny virgins you are, and then you decide that it’s time to try to take it slow?! Man, Marius, come on. I’m surprise she kicked you in the shin and not in the balls. Guys don’t tell girls that they want to take it slow.” 

“B-But, we haven’t even been dating!”

“Dude, you have been dating since you got here. I’m surprised Cosette lasted this long.” 

“W-What?” 

“She told Eponine that she wanted to jump your bones the day after you arrived.” 

Marius just curled up on himself. Grantaire started laughing again. “She’s not the innocent beam of sunshine you think she is, trust me.” 

“Huh?” 

“She’s a contortionist. She can bend in ways you can’t even imagine which, according to Eponine, is a wonderful way to get yourself off.” 

Marius groaned and tried not to show just how aroused that train of thought made him. “I just want it to last.” He whimpered. 

“What part of ‘she’s been waiting for this for the past two months’ don’t you get?!” Grantaire ran a hand through his curls. “Fine, you want romantic soul-mate crap? Take her to a nice bistro, walk along the beach, hold her hand, and then get laid. You need to, for me. One of us needs to get action here.”

“Just try out the routine, please.” Marius muttered through his fingers. Grantaire laughed and crawled up about half way up using only his arms. He wrapped the silks around his left leg, then pushed up until they were twined tightly around his ankle. Marius started recording. Then Grantaire swung forward, reaching into an arabesque through a grand battement. He tumbled down to wrap the fabric around his shoulders and waist. Then he began to roll downward, spiraling towards earth in a way that could only be described as free fall, only to stop five feet or so from the ground. His feet skimmed the earth, and perhaps, for just a minute, he could run again.

So, he did. Marius even took a bit of a dare and pushed the other man, who only looked back long enough to laugh and stick his tongue out, childishly. God , it felt wonderful. By the end of the mats, Grantaire lifted his feet and swung out over an imaginary stage. He flew in a circle, only to land back on the ground, where he couldn’t run or even walk. But he was smiling. Which made Marius think he looked years younger. Grantaire threw an arm around the newcomer, and Marius knew it was not just for support. They hobbled out of the room like a four legged creature taking its first steps. The wheelchair had been temporarily forgotten.

Little did they know that they had not been alone. For they had both forgotten that the room was all but Enjolras’s roost. His domain, where he stayed day and night. So, he had awakened at the sounds of voices. He had seen all. 

He could not help the astonished hopefulness that brushed across his mind as he watched the artist leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having way too much fun with this story. I really am. Tell me how you like it! Thanks!


	4. Party Time Happenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter, lovelies! Marine's hands hurt now. Oh well. Enjoy all the shipping.

When Enjolras was six he wanted to be a bird. He told his mother this, who understood it to mean that he wanted a bird. She took him to a pet store and bought him a dove. Enjolras took the gift graciously, if only a little confusedly, and named the bird Patria. The moment he got home from the pet store, he opened his window and let Patria fly free. For in the six-year-old’s mind, freedom was access to the open skies above.

His mother was both hurt and shocked. His father belted him. Two days later, the local cat dropped off a dead bird at the door. Enjolras hadn’t been allowed to see. He knew anyway. He decided that freedom had little to do with birds. 

When he was nine, he was obsessed with flight. He asked his father to take him to the plane museum in the city every weekend. He was convinced he wanted to be a pilot. Then he heard of 9/11. He learned that freedom had little to do with open skies and metal. 

It was on one of the trips to the air museum that Enjolras got lost in the city. He wondered until he found a homeless shelter. He shivered in his long red coat, for it was a cold December day. He noticed that a lot of the boys his age had on only thread-bare shirts and ratty jeans. 

Enjolras was scared and curled up in the seat one of the adults had given him while they found a phone for him to use. He watched the other children flutter around the yard, chasing after a basketball. They were happy. His gaze was caught by another wall-flower. The other boy was small, with curly hair and thick glasses. He was clutching a thick book in front of him like a shield. He sat down beside Enjolras. He was shivering, just like Enjolras. So, Enjolras did the only logical thing. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped one shoulder over the smaller child’s shoulder, and one over his own. 

To this day, Enjolras could remember the gratitude that spread across that dirty face. He remembered the twinkling smile that shone in the boy’s eyes. That day was the turning point to Enjolras’s life. It was the day that he met Combeferre, who would become his closest friend and confidant. It was also the day that he learned what freedom came from. It had nothing to do with skies, metal wings, or even real ones. Freedom came from resilience and selfless acts. He first saw freedom in Combeferre. 

Enjolras forgot about flying. 

In fact, it wasn’t until years later, after he had been enrolled in college for two years, that he remembered his old dreams. Unsurprisingly, it had been Combeferre who helped him to reminisce. Combeferre, and an angel that should have had wings. 

It had been at the end of exam week, and Combeferre had to drag Enjolras away from his books, kicking and screaming. Or at least complaining very loudly. His whining had taken an even sharper edge when he found that his friend was taking him to a circus. Enjolras was not a child, and did not want to be treated as such, thank you very much. Combeferre just rolled his eyes and ignored him. The bespectacled man leaned over and said that they were going to watch the circus and cheer on Jehan and Courfeyrac, studying be damned. Their mutual friends had been working in the troop for about six months now. They were finally going to be able to perform. Enjolras pouted and puffed, but said nothing else against the matter. 

But it wasn’t until the third act that he began to pay attention to the going-ons around him. He was prodded from his day-dreams by Combeferre, who glared at him. Enjolrsa had the decency to look sheepish and turn his gaze down to the performer. Except the performer wasn’t on the ground. The man was above their heads, dangling from silken stands that shouldn’t have been able to hold his weight. 

Enjolras found himself captivated by the stranger who flew above him with such grace. His blue eyes could only watch, mesmerized, as the other youth flipped, spun, and dance. He watched as the man swung in a circle, descending back to the ground with poise. Wind that only the performer could feel jostled his soot-colored curls and made the ribbons flutter as he stepped onto the earth. His eyes were so blue that they were almost grey. Enjolras felt his heart stutter. It was then that Enjolras remembered his fixation with freedom, and with it, flight. 

When Enjolras was twenty, he remembered that he wanted to soar. So, he began googling, watching, shadowing, and learning. Combeferre just watched on in amazement as Enjolras began to practice at a small facility, learning the ropes and basics of the exercise. Enjolras was determined to be skilled enough in two months to go back to the circus and try to get the performer (Whose name he still didn’t know, why couldn’t he find out his name)to mentor him. Combeferre just looked on in stunned wonder. 

By two months, Enjolras was definitely ready, as he had been literally throwing himself into practice, even while studying for next year’s classes. So, when he asked Combeferre to drive him to Les Amis’s headquarters, Combeferre was not surprised. 

He was both astonished and horrified when he found out that the performer, the very man who Enjolras had trained to meet, had fallen during the last performance. When Combeferre heard how high the man dropped from, he had to do a double take. He had never heard of a man falling from that height and surviving, much less have no major injuries besides a bum leg. It brought an abrupt end to the man’s carrier, but he had miraculously kept his life. 

It had not been without consequences. The man, who Combeferre soon learned was R, the artist, had been chained to the ground, unable to even walk without aid or stumbling. It changed him into a shadow: a hollow shell with a grim smirk and bleak thoughts of a hopeless future. He was unrecognizable from the bright boy who had fluttered and flipped above all of their heads like a flickering candle flame. 

Enjolras never heard of the fall or the resulting injury. He had never thought to ask. He just knew that the man who had inspired him to fly was no longer there anymore. Enjolras didn’t see that the person that he was looking for was there in the backgrounds, watching and making off-handed remarks and bitter compliments. Enjolras did not understand R’s self-hatred, and so he, for the most part, left him alone. Or tried to. He was still drawn to the other man like a moth was to a flame. 

So, Enjolras and Grantaire had circled each other, knowing that if one got too close to the other, and their fragile non-relationship would go tumbling back to the realistic world. Neither was happy, nor were they particularly upset. Enjolras stayed away from Grantaire in the hopes that he would miss the bitter spews that erupted from the artist’s mouth every hour or so. He would still find his way to him in a crowd, for reasons he could not comprehend. Grantaire stayed away from the man who had become his replacement, the man who had taken his place in the stars. Only to be drawn back by his near obsessive love his Apollo.

But with the arrival of Marius, that was beginning to change. Grantaire was smiling more, acting like he had before the accident. The difference was noticeable. Enjolras had begun to put two and two together and finally, with Grantaire’s performance it all clicked. 

So, he found himself scurrying into Combeferre’s room at 3 a.m. in the morning, to shake his friend awake. As annoyed as he was, Combeferre was accustomed to these sorts of late night wakeup calls. So, after an appropriate amount of grumbling and hisses, Combeferre rose into a sitting position and glared at his friend. “What do you want, you insomniac?”

“I think that I romantically attracted to Grantaire.” 

“… No. I am not doing this at three in the morning.” 

“But Combeferre,” There was a slight tilt to Enjolras’s voice that meant that he was pouting. An Enjolras pout was almost as bad as Eponine’s puppy-dog eyes. Combeferre shook his head. Eponine was another thing that he did not need to think about at three in the morning. He would never get to sleep if he did. “I need your help.” 

“You can get it in the morning.” 

Enjolras went quiet for a minute, and then he flopped down beside Combeferre. “Can I stay here?” There was a pleading note in his voice; it was enough to show his uneasiness.

Combeferre lets out a groan as he lifts the covers, “Not like I can stop you.” He didn’t even say anything when he noticed that Enjolras’s feet were as cold as icicles. 

The next day was the engagement party. Said engagement party took place in the main area, with flashing lights, loud music, and lots and lots of drinking. Everyone, even Enjolras, was at least on their second glass of alcohol. Some of the underlings and stage crew had been invited and it was getting on.

The practice floor had been transformed into a dance floor. Cosette managed to drag Marius into the writhing mass of bodies after his third drink. She pushed herself flush against him and fisted her hands into his curls to drag his head down. “Eponine and Combeferre want to get Enjolras and Grantaire together.” Her voice was a whisper in his ear, and he raised an eyebrow. 

“Enjolras likes Grantaire like that?” 

“Look to your left.” Marius did as he was told. Grantaire was blatantly chatting up against one of the stage hands: a pretty little blonde thing with large blue eyes and an obscene mouth. “Now look to your right.” There was Enjolras, glaring and drinking and watching Grantaire’s movements like a hawk. 

“Whoa, is he always like that?” 

“It’s gotten worse since you showed up.” Cosette pulled Marius out of the crowd to give him a kiss, then they dove right back in. 

Feuilly plopped himself down in a chair beside Combeferre, who was watching Eponine with a near Grantaire-level look of adoration. The ginger rolled his eyes and pushed the doctor onto the floor, where he was quickly latched onto by the contortionist. “Ten bucks says he’s going to lose his glasses by the end of the night.” The fire-eater sighed to Gavroche, who snickered and sipped his apple juice. Large hands came to rest on Feuilly’s shoulders.

“Twenty says he’s going to lose his virginity.” Bahorel's deep voice growled into Feuilly’s ear, making the man turn bright red and curse. 

“Shit! Bahorel, you ass!”

“I suppose it’s my duty to inform you that Combeferre is most definitely not a virgin.” Enjolras nearly hissed, not once taking his off the flirting artist. The others sitting at the table just stared at him in shock. He managed to rip his eyes off Grantaire to notice. “What?” 

“How do you—no, no, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know.” Bahorel laughed, waving his arms frantically. 

Enjolras only gave him an arched eyebrow as an answer and took another sip from his drink. He pouted when Grantaire switched partners. It was another blonde. Musichetta seemed to take pity on Enjolras’s pain. 

She broke away from her boys and nearly glided over to them. “Grantaire!” She called, to which the artist looked up. “Can I see my dress?” He smiled and nodded. The entire group watched them go and then followed. 

The dress was on a mannequin. Everyone, even the boys, was startled by its beauty. Grantaire had really outdone himself. Pearls and crystals weaved designs around the corset which cascaded into folds of the silken skirt. Musichetta couldn’t say anything as she hugged the former-performer. 

Joly walked up to the drunkard and hugged him as well. “Thank you, so, so much. I know we can’t even have a proper wedding to show it off, but—”

“It’s fine, Jollly, you’re good. Consider it my wedding gift.” 

“What? But, R, that dress probably took up half your salary! We can’t just—” Bossuet’s objection was cut off by R’s soft laugh. 

“It’s fine.” With those words, Musichetta only could hug the man tighter. R just smiled and patted the young woman on the shoulder. “Now, go out there and party like the world’s going to end and have a good night.” 

The trio nodded and rushed out, nearly skipping, stumbling and flailing over each other’s feet. They were laughing all the while. Soon R was left alone. Or, at least, he thought he was. 

“You say that you believe in nothing.” The artist spun to face the sole remainder. Enjolras’s blue eyes bored into him with intensity. But there was a small smile playing at the edges of his lips. 

“I don’t.” Grantaire’s words and expression were guarded, but Enjolras had had enough of backing away. 

“I thing that you just proved yourself wrong.” He took a very small, very hesitant step forward. 

“What? Apollo, you are not making s—”

“You believe in the people who you care about. If you did not, there is no way that you give that dress away. You—”

“You are talking nonsense; you have had way too much to drink. I think it’s time you—”

“Grantaire, will you please stop arguing with me just for the sake of doing so? Just listen to me this onc—”

Grantaire’s not sure what brought on the anger that he felt, but there it was, boiling in his gut. He bit back a bitter laugh and snapped, “Why the hell should I listen to you? You, the ignorant, genuine, selfless, bloody beautiful bastard that you are?!” They both went quiet at Grantaire’s outburst. The pounding of the music outside matched their irregular hearts. Grantaire bit back any common sense he had and continued, “Why should I even think of listening to you, the man who Valjean replaced me with the moment that he found out I wouldn’t be able to perform again!? You, who is as perfect as a damn angel, with your blond hair and sapphire eyes and cheekbones! Why?! And to make matters worse, I can’t help but cling to every single word that comes out of your mouth and I can’t hate you. I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I—” He had failed to notice Enjolras closing the gap between them, until the man bowed down, lifted his chin up, and began to kiss him in earnest. 

All fire escaped from Grantaire the minute that Enjolras’s lips touched his own. He could only melt against the other man, whimpering desperately, trying to mold their bodies together to become one entity. Enjolras could only hope that his fervor would make up for the fact that he had no earthy idea of what he was doing. He ran his fingers through inky curls, reveling in their softness. He pulled them back gently, exposing pale skin, which he soon began nibbling and kissing at. 

Grantaire could only moan softly and wiggle around in his seat at the ministrations. “W-what’s this?” Grantaire gave off a breathy moan as Enjolras trailed a hand up the bumps of his spine, then began ridding the artist of his shirt. 

“Hmph?” Enjolras hummed as he nibbled at the other man’s ear. Grantaire reconnected their lips and there was teeth, and tongue, and perfection. Enjolras’s shirt was soon tossed to the side as well.

Why would you—uhg, dear god, Enjorlas, Apollo, do that again—who p-put you up to this?” Enjolras pulled back, frowning. His hands went up to cradle Grantaire’s face. Blue eyes met their mirror.

“R? Grantaire, look at me.” The artist tried to look away, tried to break the connection, but found that he could not. “At me, ‘Taire. Now, tell me, why the hell would I do this on anyone else’s orders?”

“Why else would you settle for broken goods?” R tried to pull the performer back down, but Enjolras would have none of it. He grabbed those paint-stained hands and covered them with his own.

“Why on earth would you think that you are broken?” 

“Do you see me walking anywhere?” Grantaire tried to keep the bitterness out his voice, God, he tried so hard. But it wasn’t possible. 

Enjolras shook his head fierce and passionate. “No, no, Grantaire, none of this has to deal with your physical state. R, you’re not broken, you’re free.” 

R could only stare at the blond with an arched eyebrow. “No, Enjorlas, you don’t understand--” 

“What? What don’t I understand, Grantaire? I want to help you.”

It Grantaire had a penny every time he heard those words; he would be a rich man, indeed. Anger began to curl in the bottom of his gut. His eyes narrowed and he pushed himself away. He might as well end this before it began. “Get out.” 

Enjolras stood, and once again, Grantaire was forced to look up at him. “W-What? Grantaire, what did I—”

“Out. Now!” Grantaire was very thankful that Enjolras followed orders quite well. That way Enjolras couldn’t see the way he trembled trying to keep all his emotions bottled within. He wanted to call out and chase after the man. He needed to. He had to. But he couldn’t. He prayed to a non-existent god that Enjolras wouldn’t see his mask breaking away as his hands clinched. 

Just as Enjolras didn’t see Grantaire’s weakness, Grantaire did not see the way that the performer hesitated at the doorway. Nor did he notice the way Enjolras opened and closed his mouth vainly when he reached down to pick up his shirt. All Grantaire noticed was the way that his hands shook when he reached for an old bottle of absinthe. 

The beat of the music pounded through Feuilly’s veins as he danced against a beautiful girl with a beautiful face that he didn’t know, nor wanted to get to know. It’s not exactly what he wanted. He wanted large hands that had grown calloused from fighting with both beasts and men. He wanted dark bangs falling into his face instead of light blonde hair. He wanted to feel a muscular frame behind his own, rather than a curvy, breakable one in front. But he would have to settle for second best, and this seemed to be the best option. 

That was until he was literally dragged away by his gargantuan brute of a best friend, who was, without a doubt, heavily intoxicated. He stiffened and tried to fight down a blush when the other man wrapped an arm around his neck. He could only flail when the animal tamer placed a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Feuilllly.” The bigger man drawled. “I’m booored. Let’s go someplace else!” 

“Bahorel, get the hell off me.” Feuilly pushed his friend, and smirked as he stumbled. Bahorel didn’t notice and just invaded the fire-dancer’s personal space again. 

Feuilly was getting sick of being treated like a jungle gym, so he did the only rational thing he could think of. He punched Bahorel in the face. 

Okay, so Feuilly realized that might not have been the best idea. Unfortunately, he only recognized that after he saw the smirk that promised revenge paid in blood. He took off running. He heard Courfeyrac laugh from where he sat with Jehan on his lap. He flipped him off as he rushed off into the back of the warehouse, where the animals were kept. 

There were not many animals in the small room. Most of the larger animals were in reservations on the outskirts of the city: Bahorel made sure that they always had enough room and food to be happy. Feuilly knew this part of the building almost as well as Bahorel. The keyword was ‘almost’. So he could only curse when he found himself trapped in between two enclosures and a Bahorel who was itching for a fight. 

He tried to jump over the shorter of the cages, only to be tackled by a flying Bahorel. The impact made the air rush out of his lungs. After all, Bahorel was much stronger than him. But Feuilly had more experience in life-or-death fighting, so he always managed to get in more kicks to Bahorel's stomach and kidneys. All in all, they were pretty evenly matched. 

Feuilly actually thought that he was winning until Bahorel introduced his knee to Feuilly’s stomach, repeatedly. Soon, all the ginger could do was curl up, protecting his now protesting intestines. Bahorel smiled, showing reddened teeth.  
“I hate you. So. Much.” Feuilly chocked out as the beast of a man laid down beside him. 

“No you don’t.” 

“No I don’t.” Feuilly agreed, gingerly rising back to his feet, feeling the new places where he would have bruises in the morning. Bahorel rolled onto his back to watch his friend look down at his shaking hands. Worry darkened brown eyes. Bahorel got out a cigarette raised it up. Feuilly just scowled at him. 

“I don’t want it.” 

“Does it look like I’m giving it to you? I’m asking for a light.” Bahorel smiled, waving the cancer-stick around. Feuilly sighed and got his lighter out of pocket. Bahorel hummed in appreciation as he blew smoke out into the air. He noticed how Feuilly breathed in as the smoke reached his face. Again, he lifted up the cigarette. 

“I don’t want your pity.” 

“I’m not giving you my pity. I’m giving you a cig that you obviously need. Just take the fag and blow, before the tremors get worse.” Feuilly scowled at Bahorel's words, but soon his expression softened and he took three long drags. Bahorel shook his head: if the fire-dancer did not give all his money out to the homeless in the city, he wouldn’t have this problem. But Feuilly had his reasons, and Bahorel wouldn’t begrudge him. What he would begrudge him was looking that good with his head thrown back so that his copper curls swept across his eyes, which watched as the smoke crawled through the air to the ceiling. 

If anyone asked, Bahorel would have blamed the alcohol when he reached over; just Feuilly took another drag from the cigarette. He stole back the nearly burnt out stub and pressed the butt into the ground. Feuilly started to growl, ready to start complaining, when Bahorel covered his mouth with his own. 

The petite spit-fire of a ginger went absolutely still and exhaled on instinct, causing Bahorel to inhale smoke. He was proud that he didn’t choke. He pressed just a little harder and for a minute, it seemed as though Feuilly would pull away, which Bahorel would have let him do. But he didn’t. So Bahorel put one hand on the other man’s hip and one on the back of his head and pried open the fire-eater’s jaw with his tongue. 

Heat. It was fire, burning and melting within him, starting from his mouth and spreading. Dear God, did Feuilly love it. He whimpered into the kiss and buried his hands into thick curls. He felt Bahorel back him up against a wall, which he scraped at vainly when Bahorel moved down, trailing butterfly kisses down his jugular. Bahorel moved down to excavate the dip in between Feuilly’s collarbones with his tongue. Feuilly stopped thinking at that point. 

Neither of the boys notice when the back door opened, quiet as a gust of wind. A man made of darkness stalked in and brushed past the hallways where the couple had hid their selves away from the world. Bahorel was facing away from him, he didn’t see the man. But Feuilly saw the shadow. He just couldn’t bring himself to think of past confrontations. No when Bahorel's mouth was trailing across his chest, licking and biting and sucking, leaving fire in its wake. Instead, Feuilly just reconnected their lips and sighed when Bahorel picked him up like he was something precious and beautiful. Feuilly closed his eyes and let it go.


	5. Pain, Desperation, and Maybe-Missed Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write something interesting, they said. It will be fun, they said. They lied. It's Les Mis. It's going to get down-right shitty before it gets bearable. I can't handle the feels well.

Marius woke up to one of the first nights of fitful sleep that he had gotten in a long time. He was wrapped around Cosette like a comma, one hand around her stomach; one had twining through her hair. He nuzzled Cosette’s neck, trying to bring her to an easy awakening. 

That attempt was blown out of the window when a shriek was heard. Marius jumped out of bed and stumbled into the hallway. He promptly ran into Feuilly, who was rushing out of Barohel’s bedroom clad only in a too large t-shirt and boxers. The ginger blushed so deeply, that his freckles disappeared. “What was that?” 

“C-Came from Grantaire’s studio.” Marius took off down the hallway, Feuilly on his heels. Musichetta was standing in the doorway, staring in shock, confusion, and hurt. The room was wrecked. Drawings were cast around, in shreds. Canvases had been ripped apart. In the middle of the studio, stood the remains of Musichetta’s wedding gown. It’s once white satin folds were paint splattered and stained with red. A knife was buried into the left side of the chest.

Panic flooded Marius’s mind and numbed his senses. R would be blind drunk after the party. He would not have been able to defend himself, even without his injury and oh God, Marius did not like that train of thought. Grantaire had just begun to smile again. He had just begun to heal. 

More bare feet padded against the tiled floor. Combeferre came in first, then Enjolras. Enjolras pushed past the publicist and ran into Grantaire’s room. “Grantaire! GR—” Enjolras’s voice caught in his throat. There was blood. There was blood on the ground. Puddles. Marius went white as a sheet. There was Grantaire, leaning against his bed. His wheelchair was bent and broken into two, far away from him.

The blonde Apollo skidded to his knees beside the drunkard. He pushed back dark bangs that had straightened after being dampened with blood. He felt for a pulse, any sign of life, really. There were tears in his eyes. “Grantaire! Combeferre!” His voice was cut and broken, the most human sound a man could make. His friend rushed to his side and began to staunch the bleeding. There were multiple cuts and stab wounds. Marius was surprised no one had woken up: there must have been some sort of fight. Some sort of struggle. Grantaire couldn’t have gone down without a fight. 

Joly came rushing in with a medical kit. He spoke to Combeferre in hushed whispers. There was an ambulance on its way. There were nine wounds, all varying in severity. There was a severe amount of blood loss. The chances of survival were—

Marius turned away, and looked back at the group that had gathered by the doorway. Valjean pushed through, looking confused and anger and nearly hysterical. Grantaire had been with the group when it had opened and become popular. He was one of the oldest members, one of the people Valjean had taught himself. Javert was livid. He promised blood and called every single one of the men who had been underneath him when he was a commissioner of the police force. No one would get away with this sort of thing, he said. They would pay an eye for an eye, he promised. Valjean placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder, though it did little comfort. Cosette went to her fathers and huddled herself in between them. 

Musichetta was sobbing in Bossuet’s arms. Eponine stood in the doorway, frozen in time. Her eyes took in the room with panicked understanding. “Why? Why would he do ‘is?” She choked. 

“Who?” Enjolras had gotten to his feet, and if Marius had thought that Javert was scary, he had been wrong. Enjolras was a good man, but he was fully capable of being terrible. In that moment, he looked every bit like a fallen angel, right down to the murder that shone in his eyes. “Who did this?” Eponine cringed at the harshness in his voice. 

“Montparnasse.” The words were spoken in a flat voice. All eyes turned to Feuilly who was leaning against Bahorel, heavily. He was shaking, as if in the cold, his eyes glued to the dress and the knife that pierced its heart. Marius looked around the group. They all had varying looks of shock on their faces at the mention of the man’s name. 

“Who was Montparnasse?” 

“The former publicist whose job you took.” Jehan’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. 

“Not that he ever did his job.” Javert muttered, “You don’t know how many times I caught that boy smoking and slacking off when he was supposed to be working.” 

“I-Is that why you fired him?” 

Again, the room went quiet; Eponine was the one to break the silence. “No. He was fired because of me.” 

Combeferre looked up for only a minute, but Marius could see the anger in his eyes, “For a damn good reason, too, ‘Ponine.” The girl smiled at the doctor as he went back to work. Sirens rang out in the distance.

Enjolras had used all of his political experience to wheedle his way into riding with Grantaire in the ambulance. Valjean and Javert remained at the scene. The others arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes behind him. Tense silence filled the waiting room. Marius looked up from the spot that he was sharing with Cosette. He whispered half believable comforts into her hair, as he twirled a couple of the silken strands around his right index finger. He kissed at tear tracks and paid no mind to the fact that he was trembling just as much as she. No one was much better. 

Eponine was on the floor, with Combeferre wrapped around her. The doctor was whispering softly in her ear. Jehan was braiding her hair from his perch on Courfeyrac’s lap. Enjolras was fairing the worst of them all. Gavroche and the boys had taken it upon themselves to distract him as best they could. By the way that Enjorlas kept looking to the doors where doctors occasionally passed in and out, it wasn’t working. It was clear, however, that the blonde was grateful for the boys as he buried his face into Thing 2’s hair. 

The trio was curled together, as if trying to defend each other from their sadness. Marius winced when he remembered the state of the wedding dress. Poor Musichetta. Everyone had been so caught up with Grantaire, they forgot about the trio. 

Feuilly and Bahorel were nowhere to be found. 

Combeferre watched over the woman in his arms as well as his best friend, who was only three steps away. Eponine trembled softly. She reeked of guilt. Combeferre would have none of it, “’Ponine, listen to me.” She looked up at him with haunted eyes. “None of this is your fault.” 

“If I ‘adn’t told Grantaire what Monty was doing, none of ‘is wo—”

“Eponine, he was hitting you. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t told anyone.” 

“But he wouldn’t ‘ate Grantaire if Grantaire ‘adn’t been ‘e one to call ‘e police, would he?” 

“Grantaire knew, Eponine. He knew before you told him. He knew for years. He was going to go to the police the moment you even dropped a hint that you wanted to end it.” 

Eponine wiped at her eyes, where her mascara was leaving black tracks down her cheeks. “Years?” Her voice was wobbly and sad and Combeferre hated it. He hated that she had to go through years of putting up with the man before Grantaire finally took matters into his own hands. He hated that he had not been there, by her side, to shield her from the blows, or at least clean her wounds. Jehan said nothing, but picked up another section of the girl’s hair to start on. His green eyes were greying in sadness. 

“Years, at least three.” At the number, Eponine went still in his arms. Combeferre looked down and noticed that the girl had gone as pale as a sheet. Then she jumped to her feet, looking wild and beautiful and terrifying. 

“’at bastard! So ‘at’s what Grantaire was gettin’ at! ‘at bastard! I’ll kill him! I’ll—” Combeferre grabbed her shoulder, his expression dark and serious. 

“What are you talking about, Eponine?” 

“Grantaire’s accident. It happened three years ago! ‘e came to me a couple days ago to ask where Monty ‘ad been the night of the accident. He knew! Monty knew ‘at ‘Taire knew! He did it and—”

“Montparnasse caused Grantaire’s fall?” Both Eponine and Combeferre went silent. Enjolras had risen to his feet. He stared down at them with blue eyes that glittered like ice. He started toward the doorway. Combeferre immediately stood up and grabbed the other’s wrist. Enjolras let the other man drag him into a more isolated hallway.  
“Where do you think you are going?” Combeferre asked, trying to keep his voice level. 

“I’m going to find Montparnasse.” 

“And?” 

“And when I find him I’m going to hang him from the rafters with my silks. Then I’m going to let him drop. Repeatedly.”

With most people, that response would just seem like a threat, a warning that would never be carried out. But with Enjolras it was different. Combeferre knew. He had seen what had happened when a group of eight graders had made fun of him in the sixth grade. They all came back with black eyes and broken noses. They never messed with him again. He knew that Enjolras didn’t make empty threats; he gave out warnings for sensible people to try and stop him. He was the epitome of passion, determination, and loyalty. 

“Enjolras, you saw what he did to Grantaire. He has knives and guns; he knows how to use them and isn’t afraid to do so. He-”

“He hurt Grantaire.” There was an ever so slight tremor in his voice when he spat out those three words. It clicked for Combeferre. He wondered how he had been so blind. 

“You love him, don’t you?”

Enjolras said nothing, just leaned down to rest against the bespectacled man. Combeferre felt the blonde beginning to tremble. He carefully wrapped his arms around the taller blonde. “Shh,” he soothed, beginning to pet blonde curls gently. “It will be alright. He will be fine. It will all be alright. I’m sure of it.” No he wasn’t, but there was no way that he would tell Enjolras anything different. A whimper was all he got for an answer. 

Bahorel found Feuilly outside, blatantly ignoring the non-smoking sign as he lit what looked to be his fifth or sixth cigarette. He had stolen a pack off of Bahorel's dresser and Bahorel didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had noticed. Instead, he walked over and draped himself over the ginger, who was just the right height. Bahorel rested his chin on the top of Feuilly’s head. Feuilly shrugged him off with a grunt and continued to stare out into space. He moved onto his seventh smoke in less than three minutes. With a gentleness that many people, including him, didn’t know Bahorel had, he stopped Feuilly’s hand from bringing the cigarette up to his lips. Green eyes snapped to him with the ferocity of a cat that had just been dunked in water. He didn’t let go of the other man’s wrist. “Slow down,” he said, “The last thing we need is to have to come back here to get you treated for lung cancer.” 

Feuilly rasped out a laugh, “You never gave a fuck about my smoking habits before.” 

“That was before Grantaire was lying on a fucking hospital bed, going through surgery.” Feuilly made a strangled sound akin to a dying animal’s groan. Bahorel re-wrapped his arms around the ginger’s neck. This time, Feuilly didn’t push him away. Instead, he got closer. 

“It’s my fault.” 

“The fuck it is.” 

“I saw him, Montparnasse. I didn’t stop him.” 

“I am glad you didn’t.” Feuilly went still as those words soaked in. Then his eyes lit up with fury and he spun around to punch Bahorel's face.

“You,” the ginger’s voice was a growl, “if you are the type of shit who doesn’t give a fuck when a friend is fucking dying, I misjudged you. Shit, you probably don’t give a rat’s ass that Grantaire is hurt and--”

He hated that Bahorel shut him up by just looking at him. He felt the other man’s large hand wrap around the back of his neck and he nearly went limp and compliant. Instead, he hissed and tried to break away. “That’s not what I meant, Feuilly.” There was a second’s time where the ginger stopped, trying to see truth beneath scars and bandages and brown eyes. Bahorel finally let the red-head go and took two steps down the entryway staircase. They looked at each other as equals, eye-to-eye. “You remember Montparnasse. You may be able to beat me to the ground, but you wouldn’t be able to go up against him.” 

“You think I’m weak.” 

Bahorel barked out a laugh, “Yeah fucking right.” He ran a hand through his hair, “No, you would lose to him because you’d try to go up against him on equal terms. Hell, the shit brought guns and lackeys to fight club and wasn’t afraid to use them. There were no equal terms with him. Goddamn it, Feuilly, you’re the strongest person I know. But you are also honest. Which is why you would have died the minute you took a step towards him.” 

Feuilly was silent for a minute, and then said, “It’s still my fault.” 

“Then get back in to the waiting room and try to help calm Enjolras down so when Grantaire wakes up, he’ll want to forgive you, you little ginger shit.” Bahorel hummed as he gently trailed his lips up Feuilly’s neck. The ginger slapped him away and walked back into the reception room with his head held high.


	6. Gavroche is an insomniac/badass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marine knows nothing of the legal system. Please excuse any an all discrepancies. Have fun, lovelies. Leave me your thoughts!

\--------------------  
It took another three hours for a doctor to come out. When he did, he was swarmed with Amis. He took it in stride, however, and assured them that yes, Grantaire would be alright; that yes, he had been nicked in the kidneys, but they had managed to stich it up; that he had managed to get a much needed blood transfusion. That he was now sleeping peacefully and was steady. One by one, for ten minutes every hour, they were allowed in to see him. Enjolras held back, as if unsure of himself. Combeferre pushed him into the room and shut the door. Enjolras could see him high-fiving Cosette and hugging Eponine through the window. He tiredly wondered what that was about. Enjolras stood by the doorway, uncertain of his footing. He walked over to the bedside and listened to the rhythmic beating of the heart rate monitor. He sat down and stared at the pale face that was peeking out of starched sheets. Black hair stood out against the white pillowcases, as if it didn’t belong there. Which it didn’t. Enjolras breathed out a shaky sigh and ran a hand over his face. Where was his silver tongue and elegant words now that he actually needed them?

Enjolras reached down and took a paint-stained hand in his own. He brought it to his lips and kissed at each knuckle. He let the hand drop to his lap and covered his eyes. He hid from the world in shame and cried. “I-I just wanted to be able to stand beside you as an equal.” He choked, “I just wanted to stand beside you. Why did you have to be so—” Beautiful, gentle, kind, cruel, breakable, free, resilient, “human? God, when I first saw you I mistook you to be an angel. I was happy to look on from far away. But then I met you… and, Jesus, I had never been so wrong in my life. The first moment you opened your lips I knew that you were just as human as me, if not more. I knew that you were imperfect, and it made you so wonderful. You were free to make mistakes and then try to fix them. I wanted to be by your side, to watch you stumble… To stumble together with you so we could help each other back up. I had never felt that way before and it hurt and I was scared, but nowhere near how terrified I am now with just being able to watch you breathe. You need to wake up, please. I need you to open your eyes. I need you to tell me that you will let me help you and that you will help me. As a cynic and an idealist should. Grantaire—please…” Blue eyes looked down, glittering even in the dim room. “Please, just be alright.” He leaned down and brushed his lips carefully against Grantaire’s unwounded forehead.

Enjolras stepped out of the room to look over now worried faces. Cosette walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "He will be okay, Enjy." Their worried gazes grew deeper when Enjoras did not react to the much-hated nickname. "Hey," Cosette grabbed his chin to make him meet her eyes, "the doctors say that he will be alright. So stop your fretting." Enjolras managed a smile and planted a kiss on her cheek. 

To everyone's surprise, Jehan spoke up from where he was, nestled against Courfeyrac's chest. "One thing does have me worried." Everyone turned to the poet as he reddened and flipped his braid over his shoulder. "The warehouse doors are locked from the inside. Javert locks them every night. He did so last night as well." 

"So how did Montparnasse get in without a key? I thought Papa took it back when Monty was fired." 

"He had help." Barohel said simply, his mouth drawn into a tight line. Feuilly said nothing." 

"Someone from inside the circus." Musichetta bit out, her expression livid.

"One of the understudies?" Marius supplied.

Eponine shrugged and moved back to lean against Combeferre. "Probably," she whispered, "Monty can be quite 'e charmer when he wants ta be. He can be quite convincing too." 

“Okay… so how are we going to find this one person?” 

“Monty has a habit of keeping his girls close, just in case he has an urge. If we find him, we’ll probably find the new trophy-wife.” Gav muttered. 

“Stop that train of thought. Right. Now.” Eponine ordered, causing her brother to look at her with fearless eyes. 

“We don’t even know where he is.” Combeferre added. 

“No, but I bet I know someone who does.” Gav muttered, his head held high. 

“Can’t you just let the police do their job, kid?” Bossuet asked. His normally happy eyes were tired and solemn. Gavroche said nothing. He just sat back down beside his brothers and rested his head on his knees. 

It was dark by the time they all got back to the warehouse. It was also quiet. Valjean and Javert had given the policemen all that they could, and a lone copper (probably threatened by Javert into submission and agreeableness) stood awkwardly in the entrance way. He took statements. The fact that they had not been made to do that before they left for the hospital was also probably Javert’s doing. Eponine’s statement was the longest. It was followed by Feuilly’s. No one took any notice of his conflicted expression besides Barohel. 

After, they all sat down in the middle of the main room. Javert and Valjean came back to meet with them. Javert was hanging back, perhaps feeling guilty at not putting up security cameras at every exit. But they had never had a problem with crime, so there had never been a need for them. Valjean took in all of his performers’ tired faces and sighed. “Go to your rooms, get some rest. Let the good men do their job.” 

“They aren’t even going to look in to Monty, are they?” Eponine muttered sullenly. 

“They will.” Valjean said, resting a calming hand on the girl’s arm

“If they can find him.” 

“They’ll put out a bolo.” 

“The man is a wisp of smoke. He can disappear without a trace.” Feuilly muttered darkly. With that disconcerting thought, everyone spilt with whispers of parting. 

Gav waited, still and silent until there were no sounds of footsteps outside his door. He got out of his bed and put on his shoes. Then he crept past Thing 1 and Thing 2 and snuck down the hallway. He had last seen Eponine use her phone in the main room, so that probably meant that she took it back to her room. He sighed and blew blonde bangs out of his eyes. 

He stalked down the hallway and opened the doorway that led to Eponine’s living quarters. He winced when the door creaked but managed to slip in. He walked over to the table. It wasn’t in its normal place by her wallet. Gavroche frowned and snuck over to the bedside night-stand. He reached up, nearly knocking over a glass cup, when he felt the familiar slim rectangle. He breathed a sigh of relief and clutched the IPhone (a Christmas gift from Grantaire last year). Then he looked over to where his sister slept peacefully. Combeferre was curled around her, one hand twined in her thick hair. Gavroche might have thought this gross (as he normally did with anything of the romantic variety), but it was his sister and he actually didn’t mind Combeferre. Combeferre would never raise a hand to Eponine, ever, Gavroche knew that. So it wasn’t really as gross as normal. It was only slightly icky. Gavroche wrinkled his nose and snuck out before either of the adults woke up.

He made his way into Grantaire’s studio and sat down in the man’s studio. He keyed in Eponine’s password (0216, the day that she got the job at the circus and was able to make a new home for him and his brothers) and scrolled through contacts. He was lucky she never deleted anyone’s number. He held the phone to his ear only to jerk it away when the sounds of the city nightlife came bursting through the earpiece. “’Ello?” A rough voice growled. 

“Claquesous?” Gavroche asked, trying to make his voice deeper than it actually was. 

“Who’s this?” 

“A bird who wants to know if you would be willing to give them some information.” 

There was a rasping laugh and the click of a lighter, Claquesous snorted, “Well, little bird, you must know that all information is worth a price.” 

“How much do you want?”

“Depends on the information you want for me to give.” 

“I want to know Montparnasse’s current location.” At the end of the sentence, there was silence cut only by thumping of club music. Claquesous breathed out. 

“That’ll cost you.” 

“I’ll pay it.” Again, there was silence filled with the beating of techno and drums. 

“…He’s at the corner of View and Elm. Room 315.” 

“Thank you for your business, Sir. Your payment will come to you soon.” 

Claquesous sighed, “Be careful kid. Don’t let your sister know.”

Gav sulked for a minute, annoyed that he had been found out. Then he nodded, “Of course, thank you good sir.” 

“Fly free, little bird.” Gav did just that. He grabbed his bike as he exited the building and took off into the night. 

It took a good hour to bike to the main part of the city. Gavroche nearly got hit twice by motorists more drunk than Grantaire. But he managed to make it in one piece. That was the important thing. 

Thankfully, there was only one place of residence on the junction: a shoddy motel with a blinking sign advertising free-wifi and 39.99 rooms to go. Gavroche parked his bike and walked into the building. He messed up his hair and put on the air of a confusedly innocent whelp of a boy. He walked up to the front desk and stood on his tip toes. “Miss?” The receptionist looked down at him in confusion, her lips drawing back to reveal a tired, yellowing smile. 

“May I help you?” 

“Yes ma’am. My father forgot to give me a room key when he told me to go get a soda from the machine. Can I have another one? I wanna get to bed but I dun’ wanna wake him up if he is sleepin’.” He gave a mostly-true yawn. “It’s getting dark and stuff.” The woman clicked her tongue and asked what his room was. 

“315, miss, thank ye kindly!” He took off back outside and up the stairs. The room was dark and quiet. Gav put his ear to the door but heard nothing. He hoped for the best and slid the room key in. 

The room was damp and smelled like mold and copper. Gavroche scrunched up his nose and began to walk into the bedroom. He loosened up when he realized that there was no one there. Monty’s phone was on the dresser. It was, quite literally, the only nice thing in the apartment. Gavroche was thankful that he brought his winter gloves. He put them on and swiped the mobile device before hurried out. He didn’t notice the three knifes that were lying harmlessly on the coffee table, glinting in the starlight. 

Now, if you ask Javert if he is accustomed to being awakened at the odd hours of the night, he would immediately say yes. It couldn’t be a lie. He used to work the hours that no one wanted when he was on the force. He was often awakened by Cosette when she was younger and had nightmares, because Jean slept like a rock. But that had not been for many years. So, one can imagine his surprise when he was prodded awake by a very awake, very out of breath Gavroche. All he did was groan and scoot back against Jean who was better than any blanket or furnace. The only problem was that Gavroche refused to leave.

“What in the name—”

“I need for ya to call in your police buddies! I found something in Grantaire’s room!” Well, that woke him up nicely. Javert grunted and sat up. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. However, he followed the boy into the artist’s studio and even kneeled down where Gav pointed him. Under the bed, halfway obscured underneath a ripped up shred of white silk stained red was a phone. Javert raised an eyebrow but did not go to reach for the device like Gavroche wanted hi m to. 

At the boy’s pout, Javert raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t tamper with evidence, haven’t you learned anything?”

“Call your friends! Call your friends!” Javert could only give a small smile at the boy’s energy. He used to be that zealous about justice. He could only do as the boy pleaded. He stumbled back into his bedroom and got out his phone. Hopefully there would be at least one tolerable person at the station at this hour. 

Valjean rolled over to face the other man and reached for him, sleepily. “Javert?’ 

The former inspector sighed and reached down to place his hand on top of the others. “A new lead in the case,” He muttered, “Go back to sleep.” Valjean did no such thing. 

“New lead? What?” 

“A cell phone,” Javert muttered, his hand over the speaker, “Gavroche found it.” 

“The crime scene people did not find it?” 

“The room was trashed. It would not have been impossible to overlook such a thing.” It was, however, a bit odd that of all people to find it, it was the former pocket-thief. Javert shook his head and paid attention to the conversation at hand. “Ah, thank you, yes, see you in the morning. Good night.” 

Valjean chuckled, “It is already morning, Javert.” 

“All the more reason to go back to sleep, fool. It’s far too early for any of this nonsense.” Javert crawled back under the covers and closed his eyes. Neither of the men noticed Gavroche outside, locking his bike back up.

Gav made his way back into Grantaire’s bed room and looked at the list of Montparnasse’s recent callers. Most were to identified callers, 3/4ths of which Gavroche knew to be dealers in shady businesses and friends of his father. Another ten were to a well-known strip club down the way. There were only two unidentified numbers. Only one of them had been used recently. The boy wrote down the number. Then he turned on music and lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag and cursed when he began to cough.

Gavroche took out his crappy cell, a three-time hand-me-down, which had first been given to Courfeyrac, then to Grantaire, who then gave it to Gavroche when the eleven year old said he wanted a phone of his own. It had been a secret between the two. Not even Eponine knew that he had the phone. He didn’t even have any contacts on it. He dialed the number and listened to the ringtone. There was a click and a young, soft, voice whispered, “Hello?” That voice rang in Gavroche’s head. He knew it from somewhere.

“’Llo? Is this Monty’s new beau? Let me talk to ‘im, please.” Gav smiled at the fact that his voice seemed completely unrecognizable. There was a gasp and muffled cursing on the other end. 

“Who is this?” Montparnasse’s voice was a growl and Gavroche suppressed a shudder. 

“Who do you think it is, I mean really, Mont. I could handle you beating me to the pulp and wave it off. But you wrecked one of my costumes. That I can’t really forgive.”

“Bastard! I thought you were dead!” 

“Didn’t we all?” Gavroche took another drag, and coughed again. “Speaking of which, I have a little something-something of yours that you’re probably going to want, you know, to call your lawyer with.” Monty cursed again. Gavroche hanged up. He was shaking. Monty wasn’t one to just lie low when things got rough. He would come back to get the phone. It was only a matter of time. They just had to catch him in the act. Gavroche looked at his phone, put on the ground, and stomped on it. It snapped in two. 

Javert was going to have to put up those cameras, fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to get into just how illegal the stuff Gavroche is doing is. Don't try this at home, kiddies. Please.


	7. Flying, Falling, and Resolutions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this peeps! Whoot!

Bahorel was shaken awake before the sun even came up. The only reason he rolled over and opened an eye was because he thought it was Feuilly. Instead of green eyes glaring at him from underneath a mop of red, blue eyes met him at eye level. “Shit, Gavroche!” Bahorel tumbled out of bed, hitting his head on the nightstand. He took three deep breaths to assuage the anger that came with the pain. 

“…What’s up little man?” Bahorel groaned, rubbing at the bump that was now quickly forming on the back of his head. 

“I mighta done something stupid.” Gavroche muttered, his blue eyes glaring down at his hands. Bahorel frowned. When Gavroche did something bad, he had a list of people he went to. Bahorel was number six or seven, he couldn’t remember. The animal-trainer sat up a little in bed. 

“Why’d you come to me?” 

“Combeferre was asleep.” So was I, Bahorel thought. Gavroche shook his head and managed to smile. “Ya know what? Never mind. It’s nothing important. I’ll see you in the morning.” Any other time, Bahorel would have taken the dismissal at face-value. But there was something off. Really off. 

“Gavroche.” The boy startled at the rumble of his name. The man got to his feet and let out a shrill whistle. The one good thing about this temporary house was that there were no ceilings in the rooms. So Bahorel’s troop of three monkeys could have pretty much free roam of the place as long as they didn’t take a dump in the wrong places, like say, Enjolras’s Bat Cave. There were a few answering cries as Jacques, Dog, and Cat all came swooping down to climb all over the tall man. After they settled down, Bahorel cleared his throat. “Gav, these are howler monkeys. They can be fucking loud when they want to be and they can act like bloody guard dogs. Would you like one to keep you company?” 

The boy nodded enthusiastically, pointing to Cat, who was the smallest one of the group. Bahorel pointed to Gavroche and said, “Cat, follow.” The monkey did just that. She leaped over to land on Gavroche’s shoulder and began to pick through his hair. Bahorel smiled when the boy laughed. He shooed the other two away, knowing that they too, would now most likely begin tailing the boy. Then he went back to his bed and flopped down. He woke up too damn early enough as it was. He was going to sleep a few more hours.

Eponine stumbled into the hallway to find Javert installing video cameras. Knowing him, he had probably been up since the crack of dawn. Normally, his tics and idiosyncrasies were enough to drive her up the walls. In fact, it was only his sharp wit and sarcasm that made him bearable. But now, she smiled at his determination and waved when he looked her way. “Eponine!” She turned to look up at him, “Can you tell Cosette to watch the door? There is supposed to be an officer coming.” 

Eponine turned around and balanced on the back of her heels. “What for?” 

“Gav found a phone last night. Could be Montparnasse’s.” Eponine nodded. She walked away. She saw Enjolras walking out of the building to the car. Probably going to the hospital again. Eponine sighed and walked into the kitchen. She stopped short, frowning. 

“Combeferre,” The doctor looked up, his curls and glasses skewed as he poured himself a bowl of Trix cereal, “Why is ‘ere a monkey on my brother’s shoulder?” 

The doctor sat down beside the three boys (Thing 1 and Thing 2 were looking at their older brother with absolute envy as he fed the animal the cereal bits of the Lucky Charms in his bowl). “From the information I have managed to gather, Gavroche wanted a guard dog, so he went to Bahorel who hooked him up with the next best thing. Good morning, by the way.” He kissed her on the cheek, to which she blushed and went to go get herself a banana. It almost seemed like a normal morning. The keyword there was ‘almost’. The warehouse was still too quiet. It was like the quiet before the storm. Eponine felt on-edge and tense. Combeferre wrapped an arm around her. The boys gagged, as did Courfeyrac, who just walked in, smelling of sweat and sex. “Eww, PDA.” 

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.” Marius said as he raised his head up from the table. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked like he was dead on his feet. Eponine knew that Marius was an insomniac, but it was worse than usual. She watched Cosette coo over him out of the corner of her eye. She squirmed in her seat and was relieved when Javert came in, drawing everyone’s attention. 

“I’m done. All fifteen cameras are set up.” 

“So Javert can finally find out what all of our seedy dealings are.” Coureyrac smirked.

“Pardon me Courfeyrac, but I have no bloody desire to try to find out anything about you or your nighttime activities. I already know too much.” Javert shuddered and Eponine knew that they could all relate. Poor Marius looked especially sympathetic, then again, he had to stay with Courf and Jehan for three nights before his room was completed. Eponine shook her head. 

“So Monty can’t get in again?” Gavroche asked, his fingers burying themselves in Bahorel’s monkey’s fur. It chattered and began to comb through his hair.

“Not on my watch. But if he does, we’ll at least know how he did it.” 

“And know who is helping him.” Bahorel growled. Javert nodded. Gavroche smiled. His plan just might work.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Enjolras arrived at the hospital, he found that Grantaire was no longer in the critical care sector. He managed to breathe a sigh of relief and talked to the nurse at the front desk. He was let back immediately, because at some point, Grantaire had made him next of kin and emergency contact without his knowledge. So, he made his way to the hospital room where Grantaire lay sleeping. 

The prone man’s bandages had been changed, one of which wrapped around his head like a snake, flattening his tangle of curls. Enjolras wanted to touch the artist, show him that he was there, someway, somehow. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. All that he could think of was that if he had just stayed… if he hadn’t questioned into Grantaire’s thought-process, none of this might have happened. Grantaire would have been drunk, yes, but he wouldn’t be stone-drunk. . If Enjolras had been there, he would have helped him. Grantaire might have been able to fend off Monty on his own. Why didn’t he fight back? Why? 

It was another question that had been buzzing around in Enjolras’s head for the past three (Dear God, was it three already?) days. There had been no defensive wounds on Grantaire’s knuckles, nothing. It was like he had just accepted that he was going to die, all alone, with no one there except a murderer and his blade. Enjolras whimpered and rested his head in his hands. He just wanted to see the cynic’s, his cynic’s (Did he even have the right to call him ‘his’? Enjolras wanted to believe so, remembering the kiss that sent shivers down his spine. But then he would be flashed with haunted and angry and blue, blue, blue eyes and would hesitate.) smirk that would brighten every so often with almost hope when Enjolras made a decent argument on the basic goodness of human nature. 

Enjolras stayed there for close to three hours, working on plans for upcoming rallies and new routines for the shows that were coming up. Anything to keep his mind off of the being that was lying not a foot away. A young nurse who had apparently taken both Grantaire and him under her wing poked her head in and asked if he was alright. He gave her a small, strained smile. She walked in and said, “Go get some food from the cafeteria. Their pasta isn’t that bad. You need to walk around.” Enjolras tried to glare at her, but found that he was too tired (he had not gotten any sleep last night. It gave him a new appreciation for Marius and his apparent insomnia). So, he stood up and stumbled out. 

In the café, he got himself a cup of coffee that was closer to water than coffee and a trey of pasta (he hadn’t had worse crap since high school when the lunch-ladies just served yesterday’s food until it was all gone). He only a third of the pasta, but got thirds on the coffee. He still fell asleep in his seat. 

Pain. Pain and grogginess. That was what Grantaire felt when he tried to open his eyes. The room spun and swam. He coughed and a young nurse (Huh, there’s a nurse, guess that meant that he wasn’t dead yet. Damn it Monty, had one job and he couldn’t even do that right.) jumped to attention. Her eyes widened and she called for a doctor. He’d rather have Combeferre. Speaking of which… he looked around the room to find it empty. He bit back a bitter smile. Should have expected that. It still hurt. 

A middle age man with sympathetic eyes came in and started to talk in a calm voice. He had been out for two days, almost three (Really now? He didn’t want to think how much that would cost him). He had had to go through two different surgeries (Again, ‘ouch’ goes the pocket). Police would like to question him for his testimony now that he was awake (Great, now how was he supposed to describe this?). 

By the ten minute mark, Grantaire had tuned out the man. He began to think. It was not wise for him to actually think when he was sober. He had been mostly sober when he had made Enjolras leave him alone the other night. He had managed to think himself down into near-suicidal hole. He hadn’t fought against Monty for a reason. The man hadn’t known. He had probably thought Grantaire was too drunk to fight back. He had probably thought that he had extracted his revenge wonderfully against the man who had put him in jail for six months… or was it three? Grantaire never was sure how long he was supposed to be locked up, just that he was there and not with Eponine. Grantaire just listened to the doctor drone on.

After about an hour, the doctor left and the nurse continued to hover, asking if he needed anything. He shook his head, expecting for her to leave. She didn’t. She just continued to hover, which was getting quite annoying. She seemed to grow more impatient by the minute, until finally she went to the door and poked her head outside as if looking for someone. “Where is he?” She muttered to herself, though Grantaire heard it. He frowned. 

“Who?” 

“Your boyfriend, silly, the poor boy’s been worried sick over you for the past two days. Think he would been keeping a bedside vigil if we let him.” She said this as though it were the most common thing ever. Grantaire was still hooked on the word ‘boyfriend’. 

“Who?” 

“Come on, blonde hair, yeah high, has a closet that seems to consist of red hoodies and black skinny jeans? 10 on the sexy scale? Should take up modeling as a hobby? Seems to have a stick up his ass?” 

Grantaire nearly choked, “Enjolras is not my boyfriend.” 

Nurse Fangirl just raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow, “You might want to tell him that. He’s been clucking over you like a mother hen. Get it together and get it while it’s hot.” Grantaire was beginning to wish that he was still knocked out. He curled up in bed as the nurse lost all patience and went running down the hall. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Enjolras was shaken awake by a very ticked off nurse. “W-Wha?” 

“Come on! Honestly, boys these days have no class!” Enjolras had no clue what she was talking about. He only managed to grab his coffee before she dragged him away. She threw him into Grantaire’s room and slammed the door shut without Enjolras being able to say a word in his defense. He turned around to face the room… and dropped his coffee. 

Enjolras didn’t notice it splashing against his shoes and pants. He didn’t notice the half sob, half whine that escaped his lips, he didn’t even notice when he all but flew across the room. He just noticed blue eyes that widened when he cradled the artist’s head gently in his hands, careful of any and all injuries and then closed when he slotted their lips together.

If anyone asked Grantaire what he was thinking at that very moment, he would just smile sheepishly and shake his head. Truth be told, there was no thought in his head after Enjolras’s lips met his own. His brain waited patiently to resume functions after Enjolras broke away for air. “Apollo?” He choked, his voice as reverent as a prayer. Enjolras’s breath hitched. 

“Hush,” He whispered, though it was more a plea than an order. Enjolras planted gentle kisses where ever a bandage lay, wherever he could reach. It was clear that he was crying. Soon, the crying became too much and he just buried himself into Grantaire’s right side. Grantaire said nothing about the pain that erupted in his body when Enjolras jarred him. He just let the other man move closer. 

“Enj?”

“’M sorry. ‘M sorry.” What? No. Back-petal. Back-petal. Abort mission, abort, abort. That was wrong. Enjolras should not be apologizing. Damage control needed to start like five seconds ago. 

“W-What? What are you—hey, Apollo, look at me. It’s not your fault. None of it’s your fault.” It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I was stupid. Please don’t cry. You’re not supposed to cry. Grantaire bit down those words as he ignored the screaming of his side to curl ever so slightly around the smaller man. Was Enjolras always this short? Could that heart-rate monitor shut up?! 

“If I had been there—If I hadn’t started the fucking argument for nothing—you would—”

“Nope, nope, don’t finish that line of thought. If you had been there Monty would have just had two targets to play pin cushion with.” 

“Why the hell didn’t you fight back?” Enjolras’s voice was slowly returning to normal. Grantaire went silent. He tried to think of some way to say what he was thinking that wouldn’t get Enjolras any more riled up. He couldn’t think of anything. So, he did the most logical thing. He lied. 

“I was drunk. Didn’t know what was going on really.” He winced when he saw the look of distaste pass over Enjolras’s features. But Enjolras bit his tongue. He just curled up against the artist, tracing over one of the tattoos that crawled up Grantaire’s arm. His eyes were drooping shut.

“We’re going to catch Montparnasse. We will. I’ll be the prosecuting lawyer, if I have to be. I won’t settle for anything less than the 33 years for attempted murder. Then we can go home.” 

“I do not want to see how much shit would blow up if you were allowed into a courthouse, Enjy.” Enjolras didn’t say anything. He was fast asleep. R just smiled.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the middle of the night. Gavroche lay awake in his bed. He listened to the creeks and cries of the night, listening for anything abnormal. He sighed and whistled for Cat. The monkey swooped down to land on his stomach. He smiled at her and petted her head. She cooed at him as he sat up. She crawled up to his shoulder and wrapped her tail around his throat loosely. He snuck out of the room yet again. 

Gavroche walked past all the rooms, only stopping at Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s room. Everyone, even the underlings, who really didn’t know all that was going on, were being particularly kind to the head tumblers. It was helping. Musichetta was singing soft Spanish lullabies under her breath as she worked again. Joly was back to his worrisome nature. Bossuet had played with Thing 1 and Thing 2 in the morning. It still made Gavroche’s blood boil that Monty had done what he had. They would get him. They had to. 

Cat suddenly went still. She jumped down from Gav’s shoulder. Then she took off into the rafters. Gavroche felt a burst of panic and ran to follow her. He ran into the depths of the warehouse, where only Bahorel and Feuilly knew where things were. There was the sound of a door closing, ever so quietly. Two shadows stretched their way across the floor. Gavroche stopped breathing and the world went silent. Then Cat started to howl. 

Gavroche took off running when he heard Monty curse. A hand grabbed his shoulder. Gavroche spun around to stare blindly at dark eyes. Gav did was Bahorel had taught him. He punched the man in the stomach and took off, ignoring the woman’s surprised cry. Monty growled in fury and pain as he took off in pursuit.

Jaques and Dog joined in to Cat’s alarm. The boy was more agile, where Montparnasse was faster. Gavroche rounded a corner and grabbed onto the fire alarm. The whole building was lit up with noise. He jumped over a crate and heard the pounding of Monty’s boots in his ears. He raced into the Ribbon Room and took a flying leap before grabbing two red silken stands. The thudding got louder as the boy hurried up the ropes. He heard people shouting, confused at the cacophony. Monty stood in the doorway of the unlit room. He looked like a demon from Hell with an inferno of rage etched upon his perfect face. 

“Bastard. Little fucking twerp. I know you’re in here.” Gavroche went still, still perched in his spot, almost 60 feet over the ground. Monty struggled to find to find the lights. He fumbled in his pockets before drawing out a lighter. 

“I’ll get you out of here, even if I have to smoke you out.” Gavroche squeezed his eyes shut and waited to smell smoke. It never came. In its place, there was a furious cry. Montparnasse sent flying across, only to fall back and skid across the floor. Bahorel stood above him, a feral smile lighting up his features.

“You have a lot of nerve to show your face around here again.” He snarled, grabbing the man by his collar. Feuilly grabbed Bahorel, Monty swung an arm and there was a flash of silver. Bahorel winced but did not let go when blood began to trail down his cheek. Bahorel’s look of anger was nothing in comparison to Feuilly’s. Whatever signs of restraint the ginger had had were now aflame.

“You’ll regret that one, pretty-boy.” The ginger seethed. It took him two steps to get into Montparnasse’s face. It took less than a second for Feuilly’s fist to find its way to Monty’s nose with a sickening ‘crack’. Bahorel raised an eyebrow when Monty went limp in his grasp, blood flowing freely from his nostrils. 

“You knocked him out.” 

“I meant to kill him.” Feuilly said, prodding at the prone man with his toe. “Asshole was too damn cocky. Everyone knows silk doesn’t burn well.” 

Combeferre came running in and surveyed the scene with calculating eyes. “Marius! Get Javert!” He called. The publicist spun on his heels. Red and blue lights flashed in the background as Gavroche whimpered. His grip was slipping. “Ferre! HELP!” He yelped, fear coursing through his veins as he looked down at the ground far below him. The doctor cursed and Eponine cried out in terror.

“Gav! How the hell did you end up there?!” 

“Monty chased me. Help! I’m slipping!” Combeferre went running forward. Gavroche lost his hold. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the swooping feeling that came with free-fall.

Then it stopped. He felt himself being pulled up into strong arms. He hestitantly opened his eyes to look into blue eyes. “Are you alright?” Enjolras asked. Gavroche couldn’t say anything. He just started crying. Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief and looked down at his friends on the ground. “He’s fine. Just shaken. He was too scared to move.” Eponine almost fell to her knees in relief and only stayed standing due to Combeferre. Everyone was running in, police included. 

About an hour later, they had managed to get Gavroche down. Monty had woken up. The police were questioning Gavroche and reading Monty his rights. Valjean was off to the side, but everyone heard him when he asked Javert, “How in the world do you think the boy got in?” 

Gavroche raised his head to look them in the eye, “He was picking the locks. There was nobody else I saw.” He ended his sentence by looking over at the dandy who was regarding him with a curious expression.

“Didn’t know Monty knew ‘ow to pick locks.” Eponine muttered. Montparnasse smirked, almost looking proud of himself when he said, “Learned in the brink. It’s not that hard, actually.” With that final word, he was led away. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

It wasn’t often that Gavroche went into the lower-level performers’ quarters. But there he was, asking for a young woman with curly blonde hair and sharp brown eyes. The others pointed him in the direction of Courtney’s room. Gavroche didn’t bother to knock. He wasn’t surprised to find the contents of the room packed into boxes. “You going somewhere?” 

The young woman with familiar haunted eyes jerked to attention. “I’m leaving.” 

“I’m not going to tell.” She flinched. 

“I’m going to turn myself in.” 

“I’d prefer you didn’t do that. It’s get both Monty and me in trouble since we lied for you.” Again, the woman froze. Gavroche clicked his tongue. 

“You didn’t know that… did you? That Monty cared enough about you to lie for you. It even got him a couple more years added onto his prison time.” 

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty—”

“I’m trying to get you to not waste an opportunity. Javert hadn’t made the cameras operational that night. You’re safe. As innocent as one can be under the law.” He watched as her shoulders began to shake, as she stayed in her spot with her head bowed.

“W-Why would you—”

“I knew who you were the moment you answered Monty’s phone. Truth be told, I thought Dad would have sold you off to a worse man than Monty a long time ago, Azelma.” 

The girl choked out a laugh as she began to wipe her eyes, “Nothing gets by you, does it, little bird? I knew that something was up when Monty got that phone call. I knew it.”

“But you didn’t stop him.” 

“Have you ever stood in between Monty and something he wants? He may have never hit me before, but he’s still frightening when he’s mad. Besides, I did know that what he was doing was wrong. I did everything he ever asked me to do, yes, but I knew that what he was doing wasn’t right.” 

“You wanted for him to get caught again?” 

“Yes, no, maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” Gavroche nodded. Once again, he was furious at himself for letting Eponine only take him the twins and him. Even if Azelma had been in high school, she hadn’t been as resilient as Eponine. He had known that she wouldn’t have been able to break free from their father’s grip. He stopped only at the doorway. 

“I hope everything works out for you, sis.”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Monty was surprised when the guard said that he had someone who wanted to talk to him. Still, he let the guard lead him out into the reception office. When he saw the person behind the glass, he stopped short. It was only for a minute, but still. He swallowed and stepped forward to pick up the phone, his one connection to the outside world. 

“I’ll wait for you, you bastard. Fix yourself up and when you get out, I’ll be there.” With that, Azelma hung up, flicking her now naturally colored brown hair over her shoulder. She turned her back to him and walked away. Montparnasse could only smile through his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, someone yesterday asked me why I don't like Montparnasse. Truth is, besides his name being a bear to spell, I don't have any beef against the guy. In a way, he's no worse than Eponine and Gavroche. He's a survivor, who learned how to act by watching the adult figures (who were all criminals) in his life. I think, that if he was placed in a different situation when he was growing up, he might turn out being an okay guy. Which is why I ended this chapter the way I did. There's still a bit of hope for him. Everyone just needs someone to look out for them and tell them when they are doing something wrong. Monty is no different.
> 
> Tell me what you think, ja?


	8. Dancing, Loving, and Finding Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, people. I somehow managed to lose my draft of this chapter. I tried to replicate it, but I couldn't remember a lot of the detail that I used before. I hope that this will be a decent ending. I may write more in this universe when the muse comes back.

“God she is beautiful.” Marius whispered as he watched Musichetta twirl to the music coming out of the car stereo, her bare feet kicking up sand, her arms outstretched as if to embrace the sky and all its mysteries. Grantaire smiled as he took a sip of his beer and bumped against the publicist. 

“Don’t let Cosette hear you say that. She is though.” 

“Your dress makes her look like an angel.” Eponine said, Thing 2 happily sitting on her shoulders. 

The artist just shrugged sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head, “I’m just glad that I was able to find enough salvageable fabric. I’m a little mad that I wasn’t able to make it floor-length again, but at least it’s something.”

“If it was floor-length, it’d have sea water all up in it and you’d be throwing a hissy fit. Don’t lie. We know you too well.” Cosette said, brushing her lips against the artist’s cheek. Marius thought that she looked beautiful with her blonde curls lifted up by the sea breeze and set a light by the setting sun. Jehan had made her a crown of Lírio-das-areias, their white petals highlighting the cream color of her dress and paleness of her skin. He held his hand out to the girl, which she took gratefully. She curled into him and watched their friends. 

Bahorel and Feuilly were in the water, headless of the fact that they were wearing some of the sole pieces of formal wear they had, chasing Gavroche. The boy had apparently stolen something out of Bahorel’s pocket, and it was quite humorous watching the bear of a man wade through the water like an elephant. Feuilly had his head back, thrown in laughter at his partner’s plight. That was, until Thing 1 decided to spice things up a little bit by jumping onto the ginger’s back, causing him to fall face first into the water. He popped back up with a high pitch shriek. Then it turned into an all-out game of ultimate tag. It ended with Bahorel throwing himself at the fire-dancer, bellowing a proud cry of, “For Naria!” They both ended up back in the water with Feuilly squealing and cursing as Bahorel chuckled and littered kisses across freckled cheeks. 

Jehan and Courfeyrac laughed at them from their spot on the beach, where they had laid out a towel as to not get sandy. Courfeyrac had one of his sleeves rolled up and was offering his arm as sacrifice to Jehan’s amazing poetry skills. In the car on the way back, he would find himself trying to tilt his head around his arm so that he could read the entire poem (It was one of Keat’s love rambles, a favorite of the Romantic). He would smile remembering that each of the words was peppered with a kiss from feathery soft lips. 

Combeferre walked up to Eponine, his glasses glinting in the red sunlight, a soft smile on his lips. She placed Thing 2 on the ground. He held out his hand and dragged her onto the beach to dance with Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet. She finally looked just as happy as Cosette ever had, her head resting on his shoulder as they danced to a beat that only they knew. Grantaire could only chuckle at his hopelessly romantic brain. The stars were coming out and he was sure that in any minute, the duo would shatter into bright lights and join their brethren in the sky. For it was clear that they were gods, far too good for this earth. He leaned against the van and closed his eyes.

“Grantaire?” Speaking of gods. Blue eyes opened and made their way to where Enjolras was returning with cellphone in hand. He frowned at the creases that marred perfect features. R reached up and soothed out the wrinkles. Enjolras sighed and smiled, “The tow-truck said that they would be another two hours. It looks like we might miss the wedding. Javert’s goning to be pissed, he and Valjean took off their first paid-leave in three years for the wedding.” 

Grantaire felt a little bit of guilt for a minute, after all, it had been his job to check and see if Bossuet had remembered to put the spare tire into the van. However, it quickly disappeared when he noticed how Enjolras eyes softened when he took in their friends’ shenanigans. 

“I think they’re just fine here. Better even. Not as many people.” 

“Only the ones that matter.” Grantaire chuckled at the other man’s words, only to wince and raise a hand to his side at the sting of pain. Enjolras’s eyes darkened. “Are you alright? Do you need to sit down? I can—”

“Enjolras, hush, I’ll be fine.” Grantaire kissed at Enjolras’s temple, making the other man flush lightly. Though they had been going steady for quite some time (Not without arguments, never without arguments, who did you think they were? They are Enjolras and Grantaire. They had been banned from watched the news together by order of Cosette because the fighting got so bad. One of which landed Grantaire on Marius’s couch for six nights.) Enjolras was still not accustomed to public displays of affection. Grantaire found that to be adorable and exploited it every time he got. 

“I am allowed to worry. It has only been six months and the doctor said that it might take up to a year for the worst wounds to heal fully.” 

“Apollo, please, I already have Joly on my ass. Please do not make me start praying to a God that I don’t believe in, so that I can get a fatal infection to escape from the clucking.” 

Enjolras nudged him ever so slightly, “I’m your boyfriend, I’m allowed to cluck.” 

“Please devote your ever shining glory back to the world and her injustices.” Grantaire chuckled, “I’m not used to all the attention.” 

“I am going to smother you with it until you heal. Deal with it.” Enjolras growled. 

“Dear Poseidon, take me into your wet embrace to never see or hear the light of day again!” Grantaire hobbled a few steps to the sea, only to be attacked by a well-intentioned Joly, who was whimpering about him getting his bandages wet. R sank to the wet sand to pout. Marius rolled his eyes. 

“You deserved that one!” He called out, to which the artist lifted his hands to the sky and cried, “Good bye, cruel world!” before collapsing dramatically onto the wet sand. Enjorlas rolled his eyes and prepared to drag his lover back to the semi dry areas near the car. He did not succeed. Grantaire managed to drag him down to nearly lay on top of him. Marius sighed when they started nuzzling and kissing. “Keep it PG, R, please, there are children here!” 

“Oh, like you’re one to talk, Don Juan! I can here you and Cosette getting it on from Enjolras’s room, clearly. You don’t have to worry about me corrupting any innocence!” 

“Shut up, stop bickering, and suck face with your respective partners, please, the bromantic tension is killing me!” Bahorel moaned from the spot that Feuilly had him pinned. Every time a wave would come, Bahorel would sputter and lift up his head. Feuilly was grinning manically. Cosette just looked at the two fighters with an arched eyebrow.

Marius looked down to see Cosette looking up at him, a look of uneasiness passing over her face. “What is it?” He asked, cradling her face to meet her eyes. “What is the matter?” 

“It’s nothing.” Cosette reassured him with a smile, “It’s just, well, we are going to be leaving here soon… to go to Hong Kong. I-I know that Papa only hired you for the shows here, but if you asked him, I’m sure that he would let you—”

“He’s gonna stay Cosette. With us. We need a semi-sane romantic to combat Jehan’s flowers of love and hippidom.” The poet stuck his tongue out at Grantaire’s words. 

“It’s true,” Marius said, his voice soft, “I talked to Valjean yesterday about it. He said that he would be willing to take me on for as long as I wanted. So, I’m going to be here, with you, for a long time.” Cosette seemed to be struck still for a minute, before she flung her arms around the man and bopped him on the head repeatedly, chanting different renditions of, “You idiot, why didn’t you tell me?” 

He kissed her lightly on the lips, ignoring Grantaire’s cat-calls, and looked out onto the ocean and the setting sun. The fading light let a glow on everyone’s features, highlighting smiles and laugh lines. Marius’s heart swooped at each face. He realized that he would give the world for each of these people, and they him. He realized that finally, after all his searching, he was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp, thanks for sticking with me to the end! You guys are a wonderful bunch to write with and always respond with wonderful feedback. See you soon, hopefully. 
> 
> Marine


End file.
